


From the Air in My Lungs

by Kellyscams



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Love Confessions, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Sexual Abuse, Slavery, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-05-22 21:51:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kellyscams/pseuds/Kellyscams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akielos was supposed to go to war with their enemy nation. Instead, a peace treaty is signed between Akielos and Vere, and Damen, Crowned Prince of Akielos, has been named ambassador of peace for his country. </p><p>Damen sails to Vere to meet with their own named ambassador and Crowned Prince, Auguste, expecting to meet a man of pampered royalty and Veretian arrogance. Instead, he finds a man not unlike himself, his curious little brother, Laurent, and an unlikely friendship between all three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carpebucky (Scilesaac)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scilesaac/gifts).



> So here's my first shot at writing Captive Prince fanfic. My apologies if I haven't found the right voice or tone yet, I'm still working on it. Though, honestly, I feel like CS Pacat is probably in pain somewhere because of me. 
> 
> I will be adding tags as the story goes on.

They were supposed to go to war. That’s what Damen had spent weeks and weeks preparing for. Finally he would get the chance to prove himself across the battlefields. With men at his command and a sword in his hand, Damen would taste the glory he’d been longing for. What he doesn’t expect is his father coming back from the Kingsmeet and telling him that he and Aleron -- the king Vere and their great enemy nation -- have signed a treaty of peace. 

He never learns the details of how such a treaty came about. Just that it had, and all of Damen’s dreams of battle and hopes of glory were over. Just like that. He knows better than to question his father and King. His word is sacred. As if Damen’s disappointment isn’t great enough already, it’s only added to when he’s told he will be serving as Akielos’ ambassador to Vere. 

Damen wants to argue. He wants to put up a fight. But why can’t Kastor take such a responsibility? Damen is the heir to the throne. He holds his tongue though and accepts the new task with grace and as much dignity as he can muster. 

And within two weeks, Damen finds himself aboard a ship and sailing to Vere to meet with their own heir -- Prince Auguste. 

It’s a boring trip, especially without being allowed to bring slaves along with him. _Vere is not a slave country_ his father said. Which means that Damen is expected to adhere to their customs while visiting -- their undignified and petty customs.

When the ship docks and Damen walks off, he’s greeted by the bright blue sky, the scents of the salty sea air, and the eldest Prince of Vere. 

Auguste is tall and broad. Muscles obvious even under all the frill and lace of Veretian clothing. He looks like a decoration with all those loops and the velvet sewn expertly. His golden hair shines in the sun, strands of it blowing softly over his face in the wind. His expression isn’t that of welcome, but of tolerance. Like Damen, he doesn’t appear to be too pleased with this new arrangement. Still, the Prince of Vere, fixes a smile on his face and presents his hand to Damen to shake it in greeting.

“Welcome, Damianos, Brother of Akielos,” Auguste says as Damen takes his hand. He speaks in Damen’s language. Accented just slightly. “As your host during your stay in Vere, I hope all your comforts are met.”

The grip in his hand is firmer than Damen had anticipated. Firmer than he’d been lead to believe capable from the delicate nature of the Veretians. His skin is soft to the touch though. 

“Thank you, Prince Auguste,” Damen replies in the language of Vere rather than his own. “I trust my visit will pleasurable.”

There’s a visible pause between them both. Easily sensed even in the thick air. A quick pulse and a shift in each of them.

“Would not prefer to speak in your own language, Damianos?”

“Damen is fine,” he replies. “And no.” Even though he’d love to spend the next few weeks hearing the Prince of Vere speaking Akielon. “I am fluent in yours.”

He nods. “Perhaps when I visit Akielos then,” he offers and then Auguste gestures to the grand palace in the distance. 

It’s beautiful, Damen has to admit that. Even from here he can see the talls doors and the domes and towers. The blue banners of starburts. The sun’s position gives way to see that there are endless, intricate patterns carved into the creamy stone. Marble and polished metal spires stretch up to the sky with sweetly curving roofs. Too much, in Damen’s opinion. A superficial display of Veretian ways, but a good place to hide if necessary. 

“Shall we?” Auguste says when Damen looks back at him.

It’s only when Auguste starts to turn to lead the way that Damen notices he has not come alone. Not just with the servants that stand to the sides or the guards that flank him. Even the courtiers that have come to observe to Prince of Akielos being greeted by the Prince of Vere. There’s someone there _with_ him. A small golden head peeks out from around Auguste’s leg. He looks shyly at Damen, hand clinging the bottom of Auguste’s shirt. 

That must be the younger prince. He has Auguste’s blue eyes, though they’re slightly paler. He’s slight in build. Skinny in his clothes and very pale. Auguste’s skin has color to it. It’s not dark like Damen’s, but the little prince is even paler. Like maybe he rarely ventures outside. He has a curious look about him as eyes Damen -- eyes him as one would an opponent in the arena searching for faults and weaknesses -- and even when Damen holds his gaze, he doesn’t look away. 

Auguste reaches behind him to give his little brother a nudge. The little prince moves from out behind him and stands up so straight it’s clear he’s trying to reach up to bigger heights than his own, even though he only comes a bit ways past Auguste’s waist.

“Say hello to the Akielon Prince, Laurent,” Auguste instructs. 

Before doing so, Laurent sniffs and lifts his chin. He seems to struggle with something for a moment and then says, “Hello, Prince Damianos.”

Damen can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth. That was said in Akielon. Not at all well annunciated and with a thick, heavy accent -- even just those few words -- but a sweet and innocent attempt. 

So Damen responds in his own language, “Greetings to you, young Prince of Vere. Thank you for your kind welcome.”

Little Laurent holds Damen’s gaze for a few moments longer before frustration passes over his face and he glances up at his brother. Auguste’s mouth lifts up in a smile. Adoring and loving, and Damen wonders if Kastor has ever looked at him that way. 

“The Prince of Akielos greets you and thanks you for your welcome,” Auguste translates Damen’s words for his little brother. “Come on, Laurent. We shall show Damen to his rooms.”

The rooms Damen’s brought to are large and exquisite, in true Veretian fashion. Lavishly decorated and already stocked with wines and fruits. It smells faintly sweet. Perhaps it had been showered with blossoms of the most potent flowers in preparation for Damen’s arrival. The view from the window overlooks a garden. Meticulously kept and filled with an abundance of colorful plants. There are people strolling through. One courtier sits on a marble bench with her pet. The young girl is painted in gold and dressed in jewelry. From the ruby earrings that dangle from her lobes to the silver bells that hug gently around her ankles. 

Damen pulls away from the window when the pet begins to suckle on the woman’s inner thigh. The Veretian custom of having no dignity in such matters holding no interest for Damen. He can only hope to avoid the public displays that Vere is so known for. 

He’s unsure how to proceed with this visit and maintain the air and grace of the Crowned Prince of Akielos. His father taught him to look down upon Vere. Distrust its people and ways of life. They are snakes. Pariahs. Slippery minds that fill cups with poisons while wearing a smile. And now he’s been thrust into Vere as an ambassador of peace. Expected to shed all he knows about the country and accept them as friends. Perhaps Auguste feels the same having to play host for his former enemy. 

After being allowed the chance to freshen up, Damen is collected again and brought to a feast held in his honor. The place, like everywhere in Vere, is dripping with decadence. Tall marble columns and intricate patterns and designs carved into everything. Large, exquisite tapestries that hang from the walls and depict tales foreign to Damen. The dais is overflowing with food. Trays of fruits and meats. Warm, succulent bread. Platters of sweets. Servants move from place to place, always appearing as if out of nowhere to bring something new to the tables. 

The king is there. Seated upon his throne being served wines and delicacies. Auguste is on one side of him, Little Laurent on the other. There are courtiers and members of the king’s council. Servants serving and pets… otherwise occupied with deeds that Damen would rather not be in view of. He instead keeps his eyes trained on the performances that are going on. A woman sings. A pet juggles lit torches. Someone too far for Damen to see plays an instrument. 

And Damen sighs. 

“Are you enjoying the festivities?” 

Damen looks to his left where his neighbor sits. Auguste wears a smile and rests his chin in the palm of his hand. 

“It’s lovely,” Damen answers. To be polite. Because the truth is, he’s bored to tears. Just as he figured he’d be. He wonders if it will be like this the whole trip. Being forced to endure endlessly ostentatious shows and trying to ignore shameful displays no one around here thinks twice of. 

But Auguste chuckles and waves his hand out to him. “You look bored.”

Damen flushes and looks away. He hopes not to insult his hosts while he’s here and displease his father, but he isn’t used to simply spectating. He isn’t used to the extravagance and gaudy. Most of all, he wants no part of it either. 

“It’s simply different,” Damen says. 

“Really?” Auguste looks back to the performances. “How would it be in your country?”

He tells Auguste about the sports that they host in Akielos. About wrestling and sparring. Javelin and jousting. The games they host holding honor and privilege for those who participate. Winners are rewarded with their use of slaves, though Damen leaves that part out. He thinks of Nikandros what he would have to say about the differences here. 

“Well, that sounds completely barbaric,” says Auguste when Damen finishes. The words hit Damen’s chest like a blade. An insult he hadn’t been prepared for. But before he can retort, Auguste turns with a grin. “And much more entertaining. I’ve always found these thing dreadfully boring.”

An uneasy laugh rumbles in Damen’s chest as the insult dislodges and the joke settles into his bones. 

Auguste says, “We can slip away. As your host, it won’t do to leave you behind and bored.”

“Were you planning to leave?”

“I never stay. Despite your general disgust of my country,” he mentions offhandedly. “I assure you we can find _something_ that might hold your interest.”

The grin on his mouth is open and unguarded. Damen can’t be sure if he’s joking with him or not. But the Crowned Prince showing more of a sense of humor than Damen could have ever imagined. He returns the smile, and follows Auguste away from the noise and spectacle of a frivolous feast. 

Auguste leads him down opened corridors. They pass through courtyards and gardens, possibly even the garden that Damen has a view of. Guards stand in their positions and workers of the palace smile and greet their prince with a bow. 

They’re in an empty hall, their reflections shining off of the polished marble they walk over, when they both realize they’re being followed. It’s quiet. Just a small pitter patter of hurried footsteps behind them. Both Damen and Auguste turn at the same time, and catch a flash of gold dart behind one of the columns. 

Auguste sighs. 

“You’re not as stealthy as you think,” he calls out. “Come out here, Laurent.”

There’s a moment’s pause before Laurent listens. When he steps out from behind the pillar, he’s looking at this feet before his gaze sweeps up to catch his brother’s. They’re silent as they look at one another, but there appears to be an unspoken conversation between them. Auguste regards his little brother for a while before sighing and gesturing for Laurent to come forward.

“Come on then,” he sighs.

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of Laurent’s mouth. He holds onto it though. Keeps it tight so that it doesn’t give his joy at being allowed to tag along away. When he reaches them, Auguste calls him a pest, but ruffles his hand over his brother’s head. 

The Princes of Vere bring Damen to a training area. Where there are still men actively partaking in it’s use. It’s rectangular in shape, a long room that spans out from left to right in front of Damen’s eyes with packed sawdust floors and a thick wooden post at one end. Because the sun has set, it’s lit by torches. Flames that flicker shadowed light across the walls ringed with benches. The light touches most over the mounted weaponry. An array of knives -- sheathed and bare -- crossed spears, and swords. 

“Is this more to your tastes then, Damianos?”

The sounds of clashing metal. The grunts of exertion. The scent of sawdust. Yes, it is much more to his taste. Damen takes an unthinking step forward before remembering he is only a guest here. Their presence is noticed within moments and all activity comes to a halt so that those there may greet their princes. Auguste -- arm around his brother’s shoulders -- grins and tells them all to continue before gesturing for Damen to join in any area he’d like. 

Someone whistles like a wolf as he walks across the area to the weaponry. Before Damen can see who, Auguste has him ordered away for showing disrespect to their guest. It takes only that whistle to realize that they’re not only staring at him because he’s Damianos of Akielos, but because of what he’s wearing. A typical chiton, reaching just by his knees and pinned at the shoulder by his lion’s head pin. The absurdity of it makes Damen roll his eyes. They think him lowly for his attire when they’re having sex with their pets right out for anyone to see. There’s no need for all those frills and laces and ties. Garment upon garment that Damen can’t see that serves any purpose other than to be a bother to put on and take off. 

Letting the tightness in his chest fuel him, Damen selects a sword. Wraps his hand around the gilded hilt and lifts it from its home with the promise of bringing it good use. It’s heavy in his grip, and it feels good to hold it. More like at home. He turns with it in his hand and finds himself being watched. The activities of training have slowed. Soldiers eye him warily. Though their countries did not go to war, they must have the rumors of Damen’s excellence on the fields. 

“Does no one wish to spar with the Crowned Prince of Akielos?” Auguste asks. 

A strange silence ripples through the arena. Silence, though thoughts are loud as glances are exchanged among the men there. One seems bolder than the rest and steps out to meet Damen. A man called Orlant. 

“Are you any good?” he asks. 

Damen grins. “I am.”

He takes the first swing. Orlant parries. The first few exchanges are easy. Mildly exploratory in a back and forth that gets them used to one another. The use of steel over wooden practice swords has Damen holding back, but just slightly since his opponent doesn’t seem to be bothered over the fact that one wrong swing risks permanent injury or even death to a prince of a newly allied nation.

The Veretian style of fighting is different than what Damen is used to. More twists and turns opposed to his forward style of brute strength. It’s exhilarating to deliver blows that have his opponent on the defence. 

Orlant is good. Damen is better, and with one quick move he drives Orlant to his back. His weapon fallen from his hand and too far from his reach to grab again. Slowly, Orlant rises to his feet where he looks from Damen back to his discarded sword to Damen again. He says no words, but concedes his yield with a curt nod of his head before marching away. 

“That was one of the best men on my guard,” Auguste says from the bench he and Little Laurent are watching from. “You bested him in under ten minutes.”

Damen shrugs with one friendly swing of the sword. “Would you care to spar then, Auguste?”

The answer to that is decidedly and fantastically a yes. Auguste slips off the bench to retrieve his own weapon before meeting Damen at the midway point. Off to the side, Laurent watches most intently. They lifts their swords. And begin. 

Auguste is better than Orlant. It’s a straightforward fight. He attacks with exertion and advancement, following through with each swing of his blade. He’s able to push Damen back more than once. But Damen’s power and strength out does the Veretian prince, and for every push back he receives, he delivers back two-fold. 

Their swords crash, metal singing out loud and powerful, and clashing in Damen’s ears. When Damen strikes with one unrestrained swing, he can see the impact travel through all of Auguste’s body, causing him to almost drop his sword. Gathering his bearings, Auguste takes hold of his sword with both hands. 

“You fight well,” Damen compliments as he parries another blow. 

Auguste takes a moment to catch his breath. “Almost as well as you.”

The next few strikes that come hard and fast from Damen catch Auguste and immediately throw him on the defence, the last one forcing him to his back. Unlike Orlant, Auguste rolls and snatches up his weapon again, only to rise and find the tip of Damen’s blade pointed at his throat. 

They both freeze, both panting, both covered in a sheen of sweat. Auguste slowly raises his free hand and shows Damen his palm in surrender. 

“I yield,” he says. 

There’s nothing but the sounds of their heavy breathing as Damen lowers his sword in acceptance of his yield. He takes a step back to allow Auguste to rise to his feet with space and dignity. When he does, he smiles at Damen, steps forward and claps him on the shoulder. The ease in which he can go from opponent to ally makes Damen smile back.

Everything he’d grown up to believe about this prince and his people was that they are made of petty arrogance. Of deceit and snake tongued comments. A half a day spent with Auguste says otherwise. There’s something true and noble about him. Something Damen didn’t think he’d find in anyone here, let alone one of the princes.

Damen hadn’t expected to like the Crowned Prince of Vere. He does. Very much. 

Activity slowly begins to pick up again as the two princes embrace each other in sportsman-like camaraderie. After setting their weapons back, Damen finds laughter between he and Auguste, and they go back to the sidelines where Laurent sits waiting for them. Glaring at Auguste as though his older brother has done something horrible. 

“What is it?” Auguste says. 

Little Laurent’s blue eyes gleam harshly like steel as they burn into Auguste. He appears to be quite purposely ignoring Damen. 

“Did you let him win?” 

“No.” Auguste shakes his head. “Laurent--”

“Then he _beat_ you. He’s _better_ than you.”

The fire in his eyes -- the _fury_ in his voice -- it’s startling. Damen never thought such a voice possible from such a sweet looking, innocent face. But when Laurent speaks now, it sounds as though he spits each word out like it a weapon. Each one aimed right at his brother. An accusation meant to disarm and attack. And yet, his face remains calm. Other than his eyes, he appears completely composed. 

Auguste’s back stiffens. He’s visibly thrown by his little brother’s sudden rage. 

“It was bound to happen eventually, Laurent.”

The words just come out. “You’re brother is a worthy opponent. Maybe I got lucky.” Damen’s indulging the young prince in hopes to appease his mood. “Cheer up, Sunshine.” He smiles at Little Laurent when he whips his gaze at him. “He might beat me next time.”

Because Damen has no wish to find a dagger being buried into his belly, he snaps his mouth closed. Because the way Little Laurent looks at him right now, well, Damen’s quite sure that if he had the chance to bury a dagger into his belly, he would. 

Taking in a deep breath, Laurent slowly rises off the wooden bench. Never takes his eyes off of Damen. That fire in them doesn’t even flicker when he gives Damen one last hard glare before storming away. 

Auguste chuckles as his little brother leaves. 

“I believe you’ve made an enemy out of my brother.”

“How old is he?” Damen asks. 

“Eleven,” Auguste answers with an adoring smile on his face. “He’ll be twelve later in the summer.”

“I meant no offense to him,” Damen says. “I only--”

“I know. I think you’ve shattered his image of me.” Auguste thinks on that. After a moment, “He’s always thought of me as unstoppable. He’s never seen me yield. That might scare him.”

That is something Damen has a bit of experience in. Different though. He can remember thinking that Kastor was unbeatable. That no one could ever touch him. He’d been so proud the day he did. What Damen can’t understand is why it would scare Laurent.

“Scare him?”

He nods. 

“If I can be beaten by you then I might not--”

Auguste cuts himself off. Glances at Damen as though he can’t believe he was about to say whatever it was before he stopped himself. 

“Nothing,” Auguste mumbles. “It’s nothing. You’ve surprised me, Damianos. I expected a brutish barbarian.”

“I assure you, I’m quite civilized.”

Auguste laughs. “I did not expect to enjoy your company.”

Damen smirks. “The feeling was mutual.”

“Then,” says Auguste, “we’re in agreement. We don’t hate each other as we thought we would.”

“Yes.” Damen laughs. “I’ve tried to dislike you since the moment I stepped off my ship. You’re too agreeable to hate.”

“Do you drink, Damen?”

“I’m eighteen, Auguste. Yes.”

Swinging an arm over Damen’s shoulder, Auguste laughs and steers Damen for the exit. If anyone finds the sudden budding friendship between the two princes disturbing they make no indication of it as the two of them make their way to wherever Auguste intends to bring him this time.

“Come then, Damen. Let us drink to our mutual decision to not hate one another.”

***

Damen’s not sure if he’ll ever be used to the ornamentation that Arles holds. Everything is decorated. Every room, every hall, every courtyard. From top to bottom. Even a week later, Damen is still trying to take everything in, though it’s with less feelings of contempt. When first arriving, Damen saw these decorations as gaudy and unnecessary, the way his father and brother would. After spending time with Auguste, he’s trying to find the pure beauty in it all. 

They’ve spent everyday together since his arrival. Damen’s first morning saw him being brought down to the baths where Auguste -- and Little Laurent -- was waiting for him. He was greeted with a big grin from the Crowned Prince and a look of contempt from the younger prince. They soaked in the tub together -- even Laurent after being coaxed in by teasing remarks from his older brother and an apology from Damen for hurting his feelings.

“I’m not your _sunshine_ ,” Laurent grumbled as he climbed into the tub with them. 

Damen flushed. He hadn’t meant it that way. “Your hair.”

“What?”

“Your hair. It’s bright. Like sunshine. That’s all I meant.”

Pink touched Laurent’s cheeks, though Damen could not tell if it was from his words or from the warmth of the tubs. Even the bathhouse here was decorated. From its arched ceiling to the tiny painted tiles depicting images that Damen prefers not to look at. Auguste told him that the steaming water came from a great underground river that is hot. Damen explained that in Akielos they use a series of aqueducts to achieve the same effect. Auguste said it was clever. 

They go riding every afternoon. Laurent joins them. Damen doesn’t mind. Little Laurent is a decent rider, maneuvering his colt over the uneven ground Auguste leads them on with little difficulties. 

They train and spar together. Laurent watches from the sides, usually with a book in his lap. Auguste is even kind enough to show Damen the techniques of his country. Damen, as a man raised with honor, returns the favor and shows Auguste Akielon ways. He enjoys watching the archers as they practice. Auguste’s men show him the same respect Damen’s do. He’s loved, that much is obvious.

It’s easier to get used to the shadow that follows them almost everywhere than the ornaments of Vere. Laurent somehow always finds them. Or finds Auguste since he still hasn’t warmed up much to Damen, though since Damen’s apology he no longer seems to have use for a knife. Damen’s belly is happy about that. For the most part, Auguste never seems put off or aggravated by his little brother. Whenever he appears, Auguste smiles and beckons him to come along. He’s not much of a bother anyway and stays quiet whenever Damen and Auguste are engaged in conversation, his attention on other things or his mind wandering to that of childhood daydreams. Or he’ll stick his nose in a book and keep himself occupied while his brother and his guest face off in more sporting events. 

The one and only time Auguste attempts to deny Laurent his company is the morning he and Damen are preparing for a ride into the Great Northern Woods.

“Not today, Laurent,” he says when they’re at the stables. Servants are busy readying supplies and their horses. 

“But…” says Laurent.

“You know the woods are too dangerous,” he tells him. “Stay here and find a book we can read together later.”

Laurent’s eyes shift from his brother to Damen, who busies himself with the horse that he’s been presented with. 

Laurent says softly, “But, Auguste… Uncle’s returned from Chastillon.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Damen can see the slight change in Auguste’s expression. Whether they don’t get along with their uncle -- the king’s brother, who Damen has not yet been introduced to -- or some other reason, Laurent’s statement has Auguste’s skin draining of color. He nods once before requesting the servants to ready Laurent’s horse as well. 

Damen does what he can to ignore the sensual acts that they pass by everyday. Pets, as he’s learned, are not slaves. They’re free to come and go as they please. They’re contracted. They’re not like the slaves of his country who would drop to their bellies upon seeing two princes coming. Who are submissive in all ways and wear collars and cuffs. Pets are lavished in paints and jewelry and fed from the fingers of their masters. Slaves exchange their total submission for perfect treatment, but have no status and feed their masters. 

When Damen expresses this observation, he’s met with an awkward silence from Auguste and an indignant lift of the chin from Little Laurent. Damen looks away. This is not a slave country. The idea of slavery must be as strange and bizarre as their pets are to him. 

“It’s barbaric, Auguste,” Damen hears Laurent say to his brother later that afternoon. “Stripping a person’s willpower from them.”

“I know,” Auguste agrees. “But we mustn’t insult him. He’s our guest. We have a peace treaty with his country and it’s my job to make sure it holds.”

Nothing more is said when Damen makes his presence known, and Damen holds his tongue. 

Auguste takes him through Arles. Whenever they’re out in the streets, the people of Vere greet their prince with happy faces and excitement. It isn’t any wonder that they love him. Auguste is more than just agreeable. He’s friendly and trustworthy. Happily greeting his people with big smiles and generous spending. Damen is mostly met with disinterested looks or overly polite greetings done for showing their own prince respect rather than him.

Until the hunt.

It’s Damen’s tenth day there when the king announces they will be having a hunt that afternoon in his honor. 

“It was my idea,” Auguste tells him. “My people should see you at your best and will embrace you when they do.”

“You mean I am to participate?” Damen questions. 

The question appears to confuse Auguste. 

“Do you not go on hunts in Akielos?”

“We do.” Of course they do. “I just mean, will they appreciate an Akielon Prince on the hunt with them?”

Auguste beams with a smile. “They will when they see you riding alongside me.”

In that, Damen can only hope.

As Damen has come to expect, the pavilions set up for the hunt are just as lavishing as the rest of Vere’s accommodations. Inside are all the comforts and niceties one might find in a royal bedchamber. There are plush cushioned seats for the delicate bottoms of Veretian’s and overflowing tables of delectables. Servants pouring drinks and making proper arrangements for those there in attendance. Pets there to entertain, though most of them are so petite and small that Damen cannot imagine they’ll be brought with them on the hunt. 

It’s there, that Damen is introduced to the princes’ uncle. 

“An honor to meet the Crowned Prince of Akielon,” he says when he shakes Damen’s hand. “I knew we could lay the matter of our troubles to rest. May the peace between our countries be everlasting. Has my nephew been a good host to you, Damianos?”

“He has,” Damen answers. 

Their uncle exchanges a few more words of pleasantries with Damen before excusing himself to join his brother and engaging in kind conversation with a few of the young pets. Finding the uncle to be most respectable, Damen decides it must be for some other reason that Auguste holds himself so stiffly in his presence and keeps Little Laurent held slightly behind him. 

Laurent, as it turns out, is meant to stay behind while the rest of his family go on the hunt. Much to Damen’s surprise, he doesn’t put up of a fight when Auguste -- not their father -- tells him. Damen watches as Laurent adorns one of the cushioned seats, pulls one knee up, and snatches an orange off the table as he reads the book he’s brought with him. 

“Are you ready?” Auguste asks Damen.

Pulling his gaze away from the curious young prince, Damen nods and they leave the pavilion to mount their horses. 

And the hunt begins. 

Afterwards, Damen has made the official decision that if his country is ever to go to war, he wishes to have Auguste by his side. 

They’re welcomed back with cheers and excited applause by the hunting party. The boar speared and dead. A joint effort of the two allied princes. Damen has received compliments and handshakes and praise mixed with slight insults. Questions arise about his country and customs. The words brutish and barbaric used more than once. He tries to answer without expressing his full opinions. 

They feast on the afternoon’s kill. Roasted and served there in the pavilions. The king’s laugh is boastful and loud as he regales his guests with Auguste’s lasted feat and is sure to add a word or two about Damen’s help. The king’s brother adds a few more compliments to Damen and offers him use of any pet of his choosing. Damen politely declines, swallowing the disgust with some effort. Wine is poured. A lot of wine. Laughter is shared between he and Auguste when they leave the dais and deliver a more accurate story of today’s events to a wided-eyed and interested Little Laurent. 

Damen pours himself into bed smiling with achy muscles and tired bones. Happy that he’s friends with Auguste. 

***

In the morning, Damen is left without his host. 

“His Highness expresses his apologies,” Damen is told. “He will return shortly to be in your company.”

Having learned that Auguste set out on a morning ride with his father and uncle, Damen finds himself to be alone for the first time in Vere. He’s allowed to wander about the palace freely, able to lose himself in thought. His visit will be over soon. Tomorrow, he sails south and for home. The thought is comforting. He misses speaking his own language. Misses the flags of red that proudly claim Akielos as they blow in the wind. Misses the vast green fields of grass. 

And yet, he’ll be sad to leave something new behind. He won’t miss Vere. Not their gaudy and pampered ways. He’ll miss riding alongside Auguste. He’ll miss his new friend, who reeks of Veretian ways yet holds himself with the pride and honor worthy of any Akielon soldier. Much to his surprise, Damen will also miss Auguste’s shadow. The younger brother who trails him around everywhere he can. 

Lost in his own thoughts, Damen doesn’t realize he’s made his way into an unfamiliar room until he sees he’s not alone. Little Laurent is curled up on a large armchair, legs tucked under his slight body, with a book open. His eyes flick up for a breath before returning to the words Damen’s unannounced presence interrupted. 

“Auguste is not here,” he says. “And I’m afraid I have no swine for you to chase around. I cannot be a proper host to someone of your tastes.”

Still in the doorway, Damen blinks. They’re a misfit pair, the Princes of Vere. Auguste is a champion. Skilled in athletics and has a good-natured way about him. He’s boastful without being arrogant. Personable. Noble and true. He’s easy to understand. Laurent, on the other hand, is closed off and private. Quiet and bookish, somewhat shy. Has the seeds of spoiled royalty, but not the roots. He looks out at the world from his sideline as though he’s watching and learning, though Damen can hardly imagine what. He’s harder to understand. Sometimes Damen thinks he does. Sometimes he thinks he hasn’t learned a thing about him. 

Yet they’re quite devoted to each other. Auguste is Laurent’s hero. Laurent is Auguste’s cherished one. A pang of jealousy hits Damen. He can’t remember ever feeling like that with Kastor. 

Damen says, “What are you reading?”

“Nothing that would interest you,” he replies.

“How would you know?” Damen finds himself feeling irritated with Laurent’s brash comments today. “You don’t even know me.”

Laurent picks his head up. His eyes don’t lift right away, and a slight flush of his skin gives away the fact that Damen has caught him unprepared. When their eyes do meet, Laurent flushes harder and glances back down again. 

“Do you really want to know,” says Laurent, “or are you just asking?”

Damen dares to take a step into the room. “I’d really like to know.”

There’s a stiffness to his posture, but it lessens after a few heartbeats. When Laurent looks back up, there’s shyness in his eyes. He pulls the book into his lap and turns it back to the first page before softly explaining to Damen was the story is about. A tale of a boy turned beast only to be freed of his curse if he can find true love. 

“Does he?” Damen asks. Further in the room now, halfway to Laurent. “Does he find his true love?”

Eyes on the book in his lap, Laurent says, “I can…” His fingers pick at the corner of the book, “read it… to you?”

The offer is delivered gently, and so sweet that Damen can’t hold back the smile. Little Laurent has joined in on his and Auguste’s activities during his whole visit. But Damen hasn’t thought to wonder if the young prince gets enjoyment from such sports and athleticism. This is where is heart seems to be. In the pages that take him to far off places. Of magic and true love. It’s rather… cute. 

“That would be lovely.” 

That sees Laurent lighting up with a big, excited smile. He keeps his chin tucked in. As though showing his joy is some form of weakness. Damen takes the seat next to Laurent and Laurent starts reading. His finger runs along the page as he does and he says each word delicately, letting them pass through his lips like their fragile and must be tended with care. He starts off softly, still shy. His eyes darting up to Damen every now and then as if checking to see if he’s really paying attention. 

After some time, Laurent begins reading with more feeling, losing himself to the story and forgetting to be shy. His hand even lifts to express more emotion. The first time this happens, Laurent stops and pulls his arm in again. When Damen only smiles at him, he hides another smile and goes on. His hand lifts more frequently after that. 

It enjoyable listening to Little Laurent tell his story. His blue eyes move quicker and his voice gathers more strength to it the more he goes on. This has really sparked something inside of him, and Damen’s glad of it. Glad he found some way to connect to Auguste’s little brother, who might be more important to him than anything. 

They’ve just reached the part where the beast’s true love sees him in the magic mirror dying of a broken heart when a noise startles Laurent enough that he stumbles over a few words before stopping. In the doorway is Auguste. 

“Here you are,” he says to Damen. “I’ve been looking for you. I didn’t think to check my _brother’s_ bedroom.”

The statement is delivered with a quick flick of his eyebrows and a smirk teasing his lips. Bedroom? Damen glances around and, for the first time, notices the open room beyond the one he and Laurent are sitting in. Where there’s a large, canopy bed. This _is_ his bedroom. Damen flushes. Hard. 

“You didn’t say we were in your room.” 

Laurent eyes him curiously. “I did not think I needed to. I would have thought it quite obvious.”

From his spot in the door, Auguste chuckles and gestures for Damen to follow. “Come on, Damen. The archers have set up for target practice. I thought you might like to join.”

“Yes. Okay.”

Damen nods and starts for the door. He’s just reached Auguste when there’s a tug on his arm then, “Wait,” Laurent says. “Damen.” Damen turns. Laurent leaves his hand on his arm for just a moment longer before blushing. He’s not looking at Damen when he murmurs, “Don’t you… want to know how the story ends?”

“Oh.” Damen gently bumps his fingers under Laurent’s chin. Laurent appears a bit taken aback by the gesture, but looks up again. “I would, Little Laurent.” The air tenses around him. Laurent doesn’t seem to mind this one. The air eases again. “Maybe tonight.” Damen looks back to Auguste. “If that’s okay.”

Laurent throws an eager gaze at his brother. Maybe even gives a little nod as if begging him to say yes. That it’s okay. 

“Why don’t you dress, Laurent?” Auguste suggests. “Meet us down at the range.” Laurent’s eyes fill with joy at the invitation. “And then maybe later you can finish the book for Damen.”

Readily agreeing, Laurent darts back into his bedroom and dress, though, to Damen, he looked fully dressed already. 

“You let him read to you,” Auguste comments as they walk together. 

“I did.” Damen looks at him. “Should I not have?”

“Oh, no. It’s fine.” He smiles. “You probably made his day.”

 _I think you did,_ Damen wants to say. Though his bit of time spent with Laurent has seemed to help the young prince warm up to him more. 

***

“You seem distracted,” Damen says later when they’re with the archers. They’ve gone through a thorough inspection of all their weapons. Laurent still hasn’t joined them. “Is everything alright?”

They’re leaning over the wooden fence meant to keep spectators safe from flying arrows. In Akielos, it would keep them back from more than just arrows. Spears and javelins as well. Auguste, as Damen’s pointed out, doesn’t appear to be paying attention. He tries to, lifting his gaze briefly before he drops it again. 

“I’m… I am to ride south,” he says. “To Delfeur. Two days after you leave. For border control.”

“Is that… bad?”

Auguste, for the little Damen knows of him, does not seem the type to shy away from his responsibilities. Quite the opposite actually. He seems the type anxious to get them done and get them done well. 

“Not bad,” Auguste answers, and then straightens when he sees Laurent coming. “Don’t say anything. He doesn’t know yet.”

Instead of standing next to just Auguste, this time Laurent positions himself in between the two of them. He stands on his toes a bit, like he’s trying to add to his height like he did the first day Damen met him. After a little while, Damen feels a hand creeping closer. He looks down to see Laurent quickly avert his gaze.

“I’ve read a lot of books,” he says quietly.

Damen, keeping his eyes trained on the archers, smiles. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” After a few moments, “There’s another version of the story we were reading.” And then, “Maybe we… can read that one, too.”

“I’d like that.”

Another smile twitches on Laurent’s mouth. 

“Do you play chess?” Laurent asks.

“I do.” Damen looks at him again, and this time catches his gaze. “Care to challenge me to a game?”

“I’m very good.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Laurent looks away again and this time stays quiet. Every now and then, he takes a glimpse at Damen. Whenever Damen feels his eyes on him, he feels as though Laurent is trying to look into him. Sometimes, Auguste looks like he’s holding back a grin. Damen’s not sure why.

When Laurent’s not paying attention -- because he seems intent on focusing on the archers today -- Auguste gives him a playful shove with his shoulder. It’s not hard, but he catches his little brother off guard and Laurent tumbles against Damen, needing to grab hold of his arm to keep his balance. 

Laurent huffs at Auguste’s chuckles. He straightens up, fixes his shirt and tries to shove back. All of his efforts are futile, and Damen in trying to hold back laughter watching a young, golden haired prince trying to essentially move a statue. 

“Perhaps you should acquire the help of your new Aklieon friend,” Auguste teases, which earns him a quick punch to the side of his thigh. It gets him to gasp, but that gasp turns into another laugh. 

“If Akielon swine can beat you,” Laurent grunts as he holds himself up and back again, “then so can I.”

Damen says, “You have a vicious mouth on you, Little Laurent.” _In time, it might be sharpened and used for dangerous political games._ Damen keeps that to himself. 

His shoulders stiffen a bit at Damen’s words as though he’s forgotten how close the target of his insult is. The words call attention to Auguste as well, and Laurent, who spends his time with books rather than athletics, uses the distraction to his advantage. As soon as his brother is no longer focused on him, Laurent throws himself at him. All his weight. And it’s just enough to make Auguste stagger, lose his footing, and fall into the dirt. 

The Crowned Prince lands on his back, stunned. A small cloud of dust puffs out from under him. Just as surprised as Auguste. Laurent, standing up tall and proud, takes a chance and leans over his brother. The second he does, Auguste reaches up and pulls him into the dirt with him. Damen watches, amused, as the brother roll over once before Auguste has Laurent pinned down. 

“Who taught you a move like that?” Auguste ask with a laugh as Little Laurent struggles under his weight. “Certainly not me.”

“You were preoccupied,” Laurent says. Still squirms in an attempt to dislodge himself from his brother’s hold. “I made the best of an otherwise unfair situation.”

“You took advantage.”

“Advantage,” Laurent repeats.

“Perhaps, I should do the same,” Auguste says, and with that digs his fingers into Laurent’s ribs.

Laurent lets out one unrestrained squeal before slamming his mouth shut and giving every valiant effort not to laugh as he squirms under Auguste’s hand. 

“Auguste!” Laurent growls through his teeth between gasps of breath. “Stop it! Let me…” He need a moment so as not to laugh. “Let me up!”

“Do you yield then?”

The young prince gives it his all, going so far as holding his breaths. It burst from his lungs with a howl of laughter as he finally gives in. 

“Yes, yes! I yield! I yield!”

Laughing, Auguste relents to the yield and lets him up. When his hand is removed, Laurent scrambles away. Auguste is rising to his feet and might go to offer a hand to his brother, but Damen does it first. Laurent looks at the offer like he’s startled. He blushes before taking it and accepting Damen’s help up to his feet. 

“And I thought you’d be the uncivilized one,” Laurent says when he’s standing. Looks up a Damen with that shy of his. “But you seem most civilized.”

“I assure you, I am.” Damen looks right into his eyes. “I would have pinned you down with my foot.” Laurent’s blue eyes widen. “Then I would have avoided having to roll around in the dirt.”

Behind Laurent, Auguste laughs. Whatever troubles he finds with having to go south on border patrol seem to melt away when he plays with Laurent. After a moment, Damen laughs, too, and, reluctantly, a small chuckle rises out of Laurent. 

***

After supper, Auguste is summoned to meet with his father and his council. So Laurent takes the opportunity to lead Damen out to one of the courtyards. He dismisses the guards and shoos others away.

“We won’t be disturbed,” he says when he sits upon one of the benches. Same book as earlier tucked under his arm. 

Damen sits down beside him. When he’s on the bench, Laurent shifts and pulls his knees up, the toes of his feet facing Damen. He sets the book over his thighs and picks up where he left off before. 

Won’t be disturbed doesn’t include Auguste, who wanders to them just under an hour later. Laurent doesn’t pause in his reading. He keeps on going until the happily ever after and then hesitates before looking up at Damen. 

“Did you like it?” he asks. And then drops his gaze. 

“Yes.” It wasn’t like the stories of home. Of battles and honor and glory. But love and magic are sweet, and are suited to Laurent. “It seems your brother has brought another book.”

“You leave in the morning,” Laurent says. “Wouldn’t you rather spend your last night dining and drinking and swapping stories of glory with my brother?”

It does sound appealing, and for a moment, Damen wonders why that’s _not_ what he wants to do. Then he looks into a pair of precious blue eyes. Innocent and sweet. Damen looks over at the patient smile of Auguste, who, as host, will do whatever he’d like. And what Damen would like to do, is spend his last night in Vere with the two princes. Reading stories he’s never heard with Auguste of Vere and his little brother, Laurent. 

Auguste will see Damen off in the morning. 

Damen will leave in the morning for home.

Little Laurent falls asleep against Damen’s shoulder that last night. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Okay, so this chapter _was_ supposed to have duel pov, but as it started to run long I decided to cut it and make it into two chapters instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **trigger warnings for talks of past sexual abuse**

Nighttime. It stretches across the sky like endless dark silk with thousands of twinkling dots that add an elegant brightness to it. Laurent leans against the stone railing of the balcony of his bedchambers and stares up at them. He read a book once about a prince who lived all the way up there. Who traveled to other stars and explored worlds beyond his own. 

Laurent sometimes likes to wonder what such a life would be like. Falling in love with a beautiful rose and seeing worlds he never dreamed of before. His belly clenches and pulls with new dreams tonight. Adventures in closer places. Like kingdoms in the south.

The Akielon Prince had been everything he expected. Big, brutish, boarish. A barbarian whose control over a sword is equal only to his natural ease of breathing. He had brought Auguste to a yield. The thought still burns in Laurent’s stomach.

The Akielon Prince had also been nothing like he expected. A friendly smile. A kind face. A hearty laugh. Admittedly, very attractive. Polite enough to indulge Laurent in his fondness of the written word even when his own enjoyment is better derived from combat and competition. And he seems… trustworthy. 

There aren’t many people that Laurent can count as trustworthy. He might be only weeks shy of the age of twelve, but he knows enough of the world beyond those in his books that there are very few trusting people to be found in it. 

Sighing, Laurent drops his chin into his hand and peers up at the stars again. They wink back at him, sharing a secret with him that he doesn’t fully understand himself. 

A small sound from inside his rooms calls his attention away from the peaceful night and Laurent stands up straight and turns. He smiles. From beyond the sheer curtains moving softly in the warm summer’s breeze, Auguste emerges through the dark shadows of the bedroom behind him. His brother wears a soft smile, but it’s false. There’s exhaustion behind the curves of his lips and within the blue pools of his eyes. 

Since his new friend left earlier today, Auguste has been detained in the throne room by their father and uncle for matters Laurent is not privy to. Something was bothering him since before the Akielon prince left, but Laurent has yet to learn what. There’s a slump to Auguste’s shoulder as he approaches, something he tries to hide by standing up too straight. He often seeks solace with Laurent after long, hard days; his bones and muscles achy with the the heavy responsibilities he carries upon his shoulders. 

For the longest time, Laurent wondered what comfort he could offer for his older brother. The one person he trusts beyond words. He’s since figured out that he doesn’t have to do anything. Just be with Auguste and let him be him away from the hardships and pressures that are required of him as the heir to the throne. 

Auguste says, softly, “Are you tired?”

He is actually, a little. The hour has begun to grow late.

“No,” he replies anyway.

An eyebrow arches, and Auguste tilts his head, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. He steps out on the balcony with him and pats the top of his head. 

“Your gifts in the arts of deception are improving, little brother.” He says, “Very well. If you’re so well rested, let’s go for a ride.”

A thrill flutters up Laurent’s spine. “You know we’re not supposed to leave the palace this late.”

Auguste’s eyes narrow in that playful, mischievous way that only Laurent knows. A look shared only between the princes of Vere. 

“I know that. You forget,” says Auguste, “it’s the game I like.”

***

They’re both still breathless as their horses gallop away from the stables. The guards are still kicking up enough of a ruckus that every courtier, pet, and servant must know the princes are at it again. Running over rooftops and leaping from balcony to balcony as they make their daring escape under the hidden shadowed-covered night. There will be consequences, there always are, but it’s always worth it. 

The exhilaration that always accompanies such follies with Auguste has yet to subside inside Laurent by the time they steady the horses and dismount. His body buzzes, excitement dancing through his blood. They’re in an open field about a mile outside Arles. If Laurent looks back, as he always does, he can see the last dim flickers of torchlights in the distances. 

Auguste’s hair is windblown, and he does nothing to fix that so neither does Laurent. He simply goes over to where Auguste has sat in the tall grass and plops down next to him. Laurent looks up at his brother and smiles, though it fades upon one quick glimpse of his face. 

That exhaustion Laurent noticed earlier is more present now, even after their games and ride to their field. There’s something else there as well. Worry, maybe. Or something akin to worry. It’s not like Auguste to worry. He’s always so sure of himself. Some might call it an arrogance, but that’s not what it is. Auguste is noble. Made of strength and kindness and honor. His surety is not of arrogance, but of his goodness. He sees the good in almost everything and everyone. Like with their former enemy prince. A greeting. A feast. And a duel that ended with his brother’s yield and the heir to Akielos’s throne had won Auguste’s friendship. 

When Auguste realizes he’s being watched, he offers a smile, again false, before laying back in the grass with his arms behind his head. Since Laurent doesn’t lay down in suit, Auguste gives a light tug on the back of his outer jacket to bring him down with him. He laughs softly once Laurent is laying next to him and bumps a fist down on Laurent’s thigh before pulling his arms back behind his head again. 

“Tell me a story, Laurent,” he says. “From one of your books.”

They look up at the stars, at the endless and distant friends who watch from above, as Laurent recites to his brother one of his favorite stories. The tale of two rivals and ex-lovers who use seduction and deception to carry out their cruel intentions upon others while boasting about and celebrating their deeds. 

After the story concludes, with the demise and poetic downfall of the two characters, Auguste doesn’t say anything which is unusual since he’s expressed explicit distaste for the story in the past. He doesn’t like the deplorable and deceptive tactics. Tonight, he remains quiet. 

“What’s troubling you?” Laurent asks before he can stop himself. 

He has, without thinking, rolled his head towards his brother’s direction. Now that he has, he forces himself to keep looking at Auguste lest his lapse in thinking be noticed. Even after a long, drawn out moment, when he finally turns his head to look back at him, Laurent still doesn’t look away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “If I seem distracted. My thoughts are elsewhere. As they have been over the past few weeks. I hope you haven’t felt ignored.”

This time, Laurent _does_ turn away. Looks up again though hardly pays any attention to the stars now. 

“It’s not your fault,” Laurent answers. “You had a guest to entertain.”

“A guest,” Auguste repeats. “Yes.” 

“You liked him.” Fact, it’s not a question. 

“Mm.” He nods and smiles fondly. Then turns a playful eye on Laurent. “Not as much as you did, I believe.”

A blush fills his face, from the bottom of his chin to the tips of his ears, and Laurent looks away so quickly there’s momentary rush to his head. Something strange ripples through his belly like a pebble tossed into still water; ringlets spreading from naval to fingers and toes. He’s unable to speak until the feeling subsides. 

And when it does, all he can say is, “Shut up.”

Behind him, Laurent can hear his brother’s soft chuckling and feel him shifting in the grass. Peeking over his shoulder, he watches as Auguste turns onto his side to prop himself up by an elbow. Cheek in his palm. 

“I said shut up,” he mutters as he looks away from Auguste again.

“I didn’t say anything.” Then, “You read to him.”

Not wanting any of these new and strange emotions to betray him, Laurent keeps very still. He’s grateful to still be facing away from his brother since there’s nothing he can do about the deepening flush to his skin.

“I thought I’d do him a favor,” Laurent says, “by sharing with him wisdom beyond that of his primitive country’s.”

Auguste scoffs and then it sounds like he drops back into the grass. “He liked you.”

“Please.” Though the thought makes his heart behave strangely. “He thought of me as nothing more than your little brother.”

“Still.” Auguste nudges him in the back. “He liked you.”

Mouth being quite uncooperative at the moment, it pull into a ridiculous smile, and Laurent tucks his chin into his chest. 

After a few, quiet moments, “Auguste?”

“Yes?”

“Will you teach me how to use a sword?”

He doesn’t answer that right away, and after a bit of time, Laurent rolls onto his back again to find his brother watching him curiously. 

Laurent asks, “What?”

“You’ve never shown interests in physical combat before,” he remarks. “Why all of a sudden?”

“Oh.” He’s not really in the mood to share with his brother the reason behind his newfound interest in learning the Veretian art in sword use. Laurent, himself, is not truly sure anyway. “I… just figured I was growing in age. I’ll be twelve soon. You learned no older than me.”

Their father favors Auguste, and Laurent is no more than the backup should something happen to the heir, but it stands to reason that learning would be beneficial, should Auguste be unable to carry out his duties. It’s a thought that sometimes creeps in and leaves Laurent cold with heavy lead in his stomach. 

“Okay,” Auguste answers. “I’ll teach you.”

Laurent says, “If the Akielon Prince was able to beat you, it can’t be that hard.”

He means it as a joke. Laurent knows how good Auguste is. So good he’s never seen him bested before. Seeing him knocked down in the sawdust like that was something Laurent never thought to prepare for. 

Still, Auguste says nothing and, for a moment, Laurent worries he may have offended his brother. He quickly wracks his mind for a way to remedy the oversight, but it turns out he doesn’t have to. 

“He was better than I expected him to be,” Auguste says. “It’s for the better that our father was able to find peace with his. I don’t think I could have been a match on the battlefield.”

“ _No_.” Laurent finds himself spitting the word out. Blocking out the image such words bring on like spilling ink over written words. “You would beat him. You would have…” Nothing more comes out for Laurent hears the absurdity of it all. He was there. He saw how that man moved. An unstoppable force -- and that was only during a friendly duel. On a battlefield, fighting for king and country, with life and death a mere sword stroke away… 

Laurent doesn’t dare glance over at Auguste. He has no secret desire to see what hidden fears his brother might have on the matter. “What did you think of him, truly?” 

“Of Damen?”

“Yes.”

Warm summer breezes roll over them as Auguste thinks on that. Blades of grass sway gently around them, bowing towards Auguste the way the kingdom should. 

“He is a good man,” Auguste says. He means the words. Laurent can hear his brother’s heart as he speaks. “I believe him to be as honorable as the rumors claim.” An Akielon’s honor, everyone knows, is as treasured as the air in their lungs. “I think…” His voice lowers. “He is one who would protect you. Should I be unable to.”

All at once, the world crumbles and caves. Auguste should not be saying such things. _Thinking_ such things. Laurent trains his gaze upward. To the once beautiful and enchanting sky that has betrayed the night with oncoming clouds. He refuses to look at Auguste. 

He attempts to keep the worry and strain out of his voice. “Why wouldn’t you be able to, brother?” 

When Auguste doesn’t answer that, Laurent tries to swallow the hard lump that’s formed in his throat. It hurts to breathe. Hurts to wait. 

“Laurent…”

Laurent flings himself back up and turns to glare at him. 

“What’s going on, Auguste?” he demands. “What haven’t you told me?”

Slowly lifting himself back up, Auguste reaches for Laurent’s shoulder. Laurent, however, moves away. Doesn’t allow his brother the touch and, instead, just continues to glare at him. Auguste shies away a bit from that look. It’s one of the only times Laurent feels powerful. When someone backs down from his stare alone. 

Auguste sighs with a nod before rubbing his fingers into his eyes, and, for a moment, Laurent feels bad. His brother is tired. Mounting stress beginning to slink deep into his bones. Laurent’s fierce determination begins to falter. 

“I’m riding south, Laurent,” he finally says. “The day after tomorrow. For border patrol.”

Stomach flattening, Laurent’s heart has hopped up to his throat and beats there. Fast and hard and it hurts.

“And I’m… meant to go with you, right, Auguste?” he asks softly. “We’ll ride to Delfeur together.”

He already knows the answer to that is no. It’s in the pull to Auguste’s lips and the crease between his eyes. It’s in every beat of Laurent’s heart. The resounding _no_ is in the every speck of the night that pulses around them. 

“Please…” Laurent whispers. “Auguste… don’t… don’t leave me with him… you… you promised…”

“Hey.” Auguste moves quickly to get to his knees and clasps Laurent’s shoulder. His grip is hard and firm, but it doesn’t hurt. “He won’t…” He cuts himself off there. “I won’t let him near you again.”

The air in Laurent’s lungs goes stale. There’s a rotten taste in his mouth and ash in his stomach as here and now fades away to that night. He can even feel the cold winter’s air breathe across his skin. Taste the wine upon his lips that was given to him because _you’re old enough_. That one night when Laurent was a _special boy_ and Auguste had knocked on the doors of their uncle’s chambers in Chastillon before that last cup was poured. 

It hurts to breathe. Auguste promised to never talk about it again. He also promised to never leave him alone with their uncle again and now he’s breaking both. 

“Laurent…”

In no mood to listen to any more false vows, Laurent tears away from his brother’s grip and scrambles to his feet. Ignoring Auguste’s shouts for him to wait, Laurent climbs onto his colt and races away. 

***

It’s just before dawn by the time Laurent steers his colt back to the stables. A few of the guards eye him as he makes his way there. Those who gave chase to he and Auguste last night. Laurent ignores them. By now, his father’s probably already been made aware of what they did last night and these guards will be reprimanded by their captain for letting their princes get out of the city. Again. Which means he and Auguste will also face being reprimanded, though theirs will be given with a sparkle in their father’s eye and a hearty slap on Auguste’s shoulder.

There are servants up and working. Bustling about in the stables and throughout the palace. Auguste’s horse is already back in her stall. No Auguste. Laurent pauses there for a moment. Strokes Auguste’s horse’s mane before finally heading back inside. 

Laurent means to go straight to his bedchambers. Whatever waits for him during the months of his brother’s visit to the border, he’s in no hurry to face it. All he wants now is his bed. Maybe some water. 

Turns out he can have neither of those. Not yet. Not when he sees the man walking towards him. Tall and large, and he sneers cruelly at Laurent the second he sees him. He was on the King’s Guard until Laurent’s father kicked him out. Auguste says it was because he was a real son of bitch. Didn’t follow orders and picked fights more often than not. It was their uncle’s good word for him that keeps him around now. Laurent does what he can to avoid him. Doesn’t seem like he can today. 

“Good morning, Princess,” Govart greets rather unpleasantly. Or maybe pleasantly considering the source. “You’re wanted in the throne room.”

“How does it feel, Govart,” says Laurent as he passes, “To be a delivery boy for my uncle?”

Govart answers that with a swoop towards Laurent. Comes in so fast that Laurent only has time enough to throw himself against the nearest wall, the tapestry draped there pulling with the added weight of Laurent’s body pressed into it. He holds himself very still after that. Makes sure not to react any further. Not even when Govart leans in close enough that his stale breath hits across Laurent’s face. 

“You just wait,” he growls. “One day you’re going to find yourself all alone. Then we’ll see what we can do with that mouth of yours.”

Alone. The word sends chills throughout Laurent’s body. Makes him hold in a shiver with the thought of Auguste being gone. Until he remembers what his brother said earlier. And gathering every bit of defiance he has, Laurent spits in Govart’s face. 

The second Govart goes to wipe the saliva off his face, Laurent takes his opportunity and moves away from him. 

“You’d just love that, wouldn’t you?” Laurent taunts as he backs away. “You’ll never get any more of me than this. My brother won’t let you.”

Govart stands up straight with a smirk. He wipes the back of his arm over his face again and laughs. 

“Your brother’s not going to be around forever,” he says. Fully confident in that. “Then you’ll be alone.” Govart points a finger at Laurent. “And I’ll be there on the day you figure that out. You’ll see.”

He says nothing more before giving Laurent something of a mocking bow and then turning to head down the corridor. Away from the throne room. Where Laurent is apparently expected. Laurent watches until Govart disappears around a corner and then makes his way to the throne room. 

His father’s voice is the first thing he hears as he approaches the doors. The two guards stationed there open them for Laurent quickly enough that Laurent doesn’t need to stop walking to wait. Whatever’s going on in the throne room doesn’t pause for his entrance. There, on his throne draped in blue and silver starbursts, is the king. To the left of Aleron is his brother. And before them both, is Auguste. No one acknowledges Laurent as he comes to stand by his brother. 

“Auguste,” Aleron is saying, “You’ve never shied away from any of your duties before. Why should border patrol be any different?”

“It’s not that, Father,” Auguste answers. “It’s--”

“The boy needs to learn responsibilities away from Arles,” their uncle interrupts. Looking at Auguste but speaking to the king. “He has the loyalty and obedience of his men in the confined comforts of the palace, but can he maintain it on a trip to the border? Can he maintain it there? Can he _rule_ , Aleron?”

“He is my son. My firstborn and heir to my throne.” Aleron beams with a father’s pride, and Laurent smiles up at Auguste, though he’s hardly noticed. “He was _born_ to rule.”

“Yes, as were you, brother. So I can’t help but wonder where this sudden hesitation to take a command of a patrol and ride with them.” He looks at Auguste. “Does that worry you, nephew?”

“ _No_ , Uncle,” Auguste stands up very straight. “My men will follow me and my command, of that I am fully confident.”

So is Laurent. Laurent’s never seen even a bit of doubt in Auguste’s Household. 

“Even into battle, Auguste?”

“Well, thanks to your cleverness, Uncle,” Auguste says, “I haven’t had to find out.”

Laurent has yet to be made aware of went on during the peace talks that prevented war. He’s inquired of the events that took place, but his brother refuses to tell him. 

“Do not tell me you now _wish_ to have gone to war, nephew. It seemed as though you enjoyed your time with the Akielon prince.”

“No, I…” Auguste takes a moment to think on that, and Laurent wonders if his thoughts have danced around the same words as his own. _I don’t think I could have been a match on the battlefield._ Auguste lifts his chin, as if coming to a decision and says to Aleron, “I will ride to Delfeur, Father. I will perform my duties without complaint. I only request that you allow Laurent to travel with me.”

Both their father and uncle let their gazes drop to where Laurent stands beside his brother. Carefully, Laurent trains his eyes on the king and only the king. Keeps his face still and blank. It’s not a complete show. He really didn’t know that Auguste was here asking for such a thing. Inside, Laurent revels in the small glimmer of hope that his brother has provided here. 

“You wish to have Laurent join you?” Aleron asks. “Is that what holds you back, son?”

“Laurent is but a boy,” their uncle states. “No doubt he’ll be in the way.”

“I won’t,” says Laurent. Speaking out of turn, but unable to hold back. “I won’t be in the way, Father. I--”

“He could learn,” Auguste interrupts. Keeps Laurent from going any further. “I could teach him. The sword, how to make camp, how to lead. It might do him well to have such skills, should he ever need them.”

Aleron leans back in his throne, fingers squeezing his chin as he thinks. There’s a small crease between his eyes, just like Auguste gets when deep in thought. Laurent has focused very hard on keeping the spot between his eyes flat and smooth lest others know when he’s stuck within his mind. Laurent holds his breath as he waits. 

“Aleron.” His uncle’s voice is hushed, and Laurent’s stomach turns at the sound of it. He’s been holding onto something. Something that will make his brother deny Auguste’s request, and now is when he’ll use it. “Brother, it’s about time the boys spend time apart. People will… _talk_.”

The air turns cold. Laurent’s blood freezes; chunks of ice his heart fights to push through. He’s heard the men of his uncle’s Household. Whispered rumors of Laurent’s unnatural desires carried by the shadows of night. 

“Talk?” Aleron repeats with a quick glance to his brother. “They are _brothers_.”

“One cannot hold common tongues responsible for their misgivings, brother.” Their uncle gestures to them. “But you cannot _blame_ them for such thoughts. After all…” He pauses. Then, “Laurent _does_ follow Auguste around like a lost puppy.”

Next to Laurent, Auguste’s hands squeeze to tight fists. He knows, as well as Laurent, that their uncle has taken away any ammunition they might have had. It’s over. This battle is lost. 

“ _No one_ ,” growls the king, “will sully my son’s name. The treaty with Akielos is my legacy and I will _not_ give that war mongerer, Theomedes, reason think my son unworthy of his. Auguste will ride for Delfeur in two days hence. Laurent will stay behind.”

“But…” Auguste takes a step closer to the dais. “Father--”

“The matter is closed. Now” -- he flicks his hand towards the doors -- “Leave me with my son.”

Without another word, Laurent gives his father the slightest of bows while his uncle stands and steps down away from the dais. Laurent turns to leave once he strolls by him. 

“No,” Aleron says. “You, Laurent. You stay.”

For a moment, Laurent is sure he’s misheard. He looks over his shoulder to find his father watching him very carefully. First taking a glimpse up at Auguste, Laurent turns again to face the throne his father sits upon. Auguste gives him a soft grin and a reassuring touch upon the shoulder before leaving.

Laurent hears his uncle say to Auguste, “The time apart will do you both good.”

“Yes, Uncle,” says Auguste.

Once they’re gone, and the doors are closed behind them, Laurent lifts his gaze to meet his father’s waiting eyes. It’s not as though Aleron’s never had words with him in private before. But this matter that was just under discussion -- it makes Laurent wary. 

“You wished to speak with me, Father?”

He nods. “Did you enjoy the company of Prince Damianos?”

The question catches him unprepared, and Laurent is unable to keep himself from reacting. He tenses. His heart might skip a beat. 

“How do you mean?” He asks instead of answering the question. Laurent always finds it best to know exactly what someone wants to know before divulging any information.

“Did you find him to be…” His father grins slightly, “agreeable to you?”

Laurent tightens his jaw. There’s a small part of him that wishes he could just give the answer he’d have produced without thought just a few weeks ago. No. Of course not. No Akielon would ever be agreeable to him; especially their Crowned Prince. He can no longer say such things and have them be true.

“He was… acceptable. I suppose.”

Regarding him oddly, Aleron’s eyebrows stitch before he gives Laurent a slow, thoughtful nod. 

“I know you wished to join your brother in Delfeur,” Aleron says without prompting. “But you must understand, Auguste was born to be a king.” He leans forward and murmurs, “He cannot _rule_ if he’s out running over rooftops with _you_ every other night. Understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

He’s dismissed after that, and Laurent finally makes it to his bedchambers. Once there, he’s attended to and helped out of his outer garments. No longer comfortable with more than that, Laurent shoos the servants away before they can do more and simply does the rest himself. 

Dressed and laced in a nightshirt that falls just past his knees, Laurent pours himself into bed and wishes now that he could just turn off his thoughts. 

***

“Pardon the intrusion, Your Highness.”

Laurent is in the gardens. The ones near the back of the palace where it’s more overgrown and there are tall marble columns that cast long shadows across cobblestoned grounds. People don’t usually come here. It’s why Laurent comes here. He prefers the generous solitude it provides. He looks up from the maps he’s been studying all afternoon. Routing several different routes between home and Delfeur. 

Now he’s been interrupted. The irritation that floods through him must show on his face for the messenger winces into a bow. If someone is here for him, there’s only one reason why.

“Did my brother send you, Orlant?”

He hasn’t seen Auguste in a full day. Which is wrong and foolish of him, Laurent knows that, but he’s refused to see him. The anger is misplaced. Auguste tried. Laurent was even there when he did. It’s just… he promised. 

“He did, sir,” Orlant says. “He asked that I bring you to him.” He straightens again. Slowly. As though unsure if he should yet. “If you’d be so kind.”

Sighing, Laurent figures he can spare a bit of kindness this afternoon and rolls up the maps. He stands, maps tucked under his arm, and goes with Olrant. 

Laurent doesn’t bother trying for pleasant chit-chat along the way. He’s never been any good at it anyway and silence is what people seem to expect from him. They follow a direct route, and it doesn’t take much for Laurent to figure out where they’re headed. Unsurprising. Except when they get to the training arena, there’s no one there. 

“The Prince requested that you wait for him here,” Orlant says, and then, without another word, he leaves. Hurried.

Laurent glances around, finding himself alone in this place for the first time. He’s never really ventured any further than the sidelines. Here always to watch. He steps into the ring. The feel of sawdust under his shoes is strange. It’s soft, but unyielding beneath him as he makes his way, slowly, towards the mounted weaponry. Another thing he’s never had any experience with. 

His eyes run over all the different weapons there. Daggers, bows and crossbows, swords. It’s the latter that he reaches out for. The very same one the Akielon prince used to bring his brother to a yield. Right before his hand would wrap around the hilt of the weapon, someone yanks him away by the back of the shirt. 

Landing on his hands and knees in the sawdust, a wooden practice sword landing in front of him. Laurent looks up. Right at the end of another practice sword. Behind it, is Auguste. He says nothing in greeting. All he does is hit the wooden blade of his sword across Laurent’s shoulder. Pain ripples across the spot and Laurent grabs at it. He knows that people can sustain considerable injury -- ugly bruises, broken bones, split skin -- using these, so Auguste can’t have hit in all that hard. Still, it hurt, and the gasp that comes out of him is followed by a flinch when Auguste raises the weapon again. 

“If that hurt,” says Auguste, “just imagine what a _real_ blade would feel like.” He flicks the end of his sword to the one in front of Laurent. “Pick it up.”

Much to his embarrassment, Laurent’s hand trembles slightly as he reaches for the practice tool. He lifts it. It feels wrong. Heavy and unbalanced. Even when he gets to his feet and holds it with two hands. He’s read about proper techniques before. Knows that, right now, reading and doing are two very different things. His feet are all wrong. They have to be. The ground feels unsteady underneath him. 

He waits for Auguste to instruct him. Only instead of instructing him in anyway, Auguste takes a swing. It’s slow and not at all executed anywhere _near_ his expertise, but it still makes Laurent stumble back and drop the sword. 

“Every move counts on the battlefield,” Auguste tells him as he leans down to fetch his fallen weapon. He holds it upside down, hilt up in the air. “Every move you make. Every move you _don’t_ make. One wrong move and…” He presses the tip of his sword to Laurent’s belly. “And you die.” Handing the second sword back over, he says, “Treat everything you learn in here as the one thing that might one day save your life.”

There’s someone else there with them; someone Laurent didn’t even notice lingering in the doorway. He steps forward and meets them in the center of the room. Laurent recognizes him. He’s on Auguste’s guard. 

“Laurent,” Auguste says. “This is Jord. He’s the best swordsman on my guard.” When he says that, Jord attempts to hold back a smile. “Better than Orlant. He’s here to help. And he’ll be staying behind with you when I leave tomorrow.”

“But, Auguste,” Laurent whispers. “If he’s your best man, then shouldn’t he ride with you? What if you need him?”

“I have other men riding with me. And besides.” He grins. “The one man known to beat me, lucky for me, is my friend. Now, let’s begin.”

“Your Highnesses,” Jord says as he comes closer. “It’s a honor and a privilege.”

Auguste gestures for Jord to move behind Laurent, and when he does Jord brings his arms around Laurent to adjust his hands on the sword. The proximity, the feel of someone so close and behind him, makes Laurent want to pull away. He doesn’t like it. It makes his skin crawl and his stomach turn. Instead of moving, he forces himself to stay still. 

And they begin. 

***

After Laurent bathes, he inspects his body. His fair skin is bruised in several places. Around the knuckles, up and down his arms, across his ribs. Cuts and scrapes mar the palms of his hands and both his knees. His body is sore and achy from head to toe. It hurts to move. It hurts to breathe. 

And Laurent readies for bed smiling. 

Hours. That’s how long he spent with Auguste and Jord. Hours and hours pushing his body as far as it would allow him to push. In fact, if it was up to him, they’d still be down there. He’d still be moving across sawdust and falling into it and getting hit with a wooden sword. But Auguste made him stop, and also made him promise to always listen to him -- or to Jord when Auguste is not there -- no matter what. Laurent, reluctantly, gave his word. 

Seeing Jord working with Auguste has also put some of Laurent’s concerns about Auguste’s ride for border patrol. 

“Your brother has asked that I watch over you,” Jord had said when Auguste was putting their practice swords away. “And I will, Your Highness. Day and night.”

At first, Laurent believed Jord was only helping because Auguste had told him to. But when he said that, he wondered whether or not Jord was not only loyal to the Crowned Prince, but him as well. 

When they ended their little session, and Jord had left, and it was only Laurent with Auguste, Auguste sat down upon one of the wooden benches. The spot Laurent usually watched from. He was sticky with sweat and out of breath -- not breathing as heavily as Laurent though -- and still hadn’t said a word to Laurent beyond his instructions in the arena. 

Worried his brother was cross with him for avoiding him, Laurent sucked in a steadying breath and went to sit beside him. He looked up, but Auguste only looked out at the now empty arena. 

“Are you angry with me, Auguste?”

His brother, glancing down at him, appeared started by such a question. He smiled and nudged him with his shoulder. 

“No,” he replied gently. “I’m not. Of course I’m not.”

“What is it then? If you’re not angry with me?”

He didn’t answer that right away. When he did, he looked at Laurent and touched the top of his head. Cupping his hand over his hair as though he never wanted to let go. 

“Listen to Jord, Laurent. He’ll teach you well. And… you remember what I said the other night, right? About Damen?”

Laurent’s stomach had bunched up. He didn’t want to answer that. He didn’t like that. Didn’t want Auguste to be talking like that. 

“Why are you speaking as though you won’t be returning?” 

Eyes closed, Auguste gave him a smile and pecked the top of his head. 

He said, “Don’t be silly. Of course I’m returning. My only enemy is now my friend, remember?”

Despite his brother’s reassurance, Laurent stops from getting into his bed. Auguste will be leaving in the morning. First light. Laurent will be allowed to see him off -- along with his father and uncle -- but that’s not enough. Grabbing a book -- Laurent doesn’t bother to check which he’s taken with him -- he makes his way from his own bedchambers to do something he hasn’t done in nearly three years. 

He doesn’t bother knocking on Auguste’s door, but he does pause in the doorway when he opens it. Auguste, sitting at the small table in the room, looks up from his work. Preparations, most likely, for tomorrow. An inventory, maybe. 

When he sees Laurent there, Auguste puts his pen down and waits for Laurent to speak. Only Laurent finds himself unable to get the words out. After a long, drawn out moment, Auguste pushes away from the table.

“Come on,” he murmurs as he makes his way back towards his bed. 

They climb in together. Getting settled against a few feather stuffed pillows, Auguste wraps an arm around Laurent. Laurent hands the book to him and he just sits, tucked safely against the one person he trusts who will be gone for a least a month, and just listens to his brother’s voice as he reads to him. Tries to pretend that he’s not scared. 

He won’t tell Auguste of his fears. Laurent will never share them with anyone. 

He’s just going to lean against his brother. 

And think. 

About far off places. About racing horses and beating his brother. About the stars. 

About a kingdom in the south.

About Damen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed chapter 2! Feel free to leave comments, but seeing how I'm going through a very emotional time right now I ask that they be on the positive side. And I do promise happy endings!


	3. Chapter 3

Damen’s body is just beginning to show the signs and strains of exertion. Heavy breaths, a sheen of sweat, the sweet burn in his lungs. He’s been out in the training arena since midday where Nikandros, here in Ios for the week, came upon him. They’ve shared bits and pieces of casual conversation, but most of the afternoon has been spent sparring with breaks here and there when slaves and servants attended them, wiping them down with dry towels, serving them drinks and food, and fanning them so they could cool off. 

Now, the sun is painting the sky in deep shades of pink and orange. It’s a still evening. No gentle winds to break up the gathering and climbing heat. Soon enough, the days will be too hot for such tests of endurance. Damen’s been coming out here every afternoon since returning from his trip to Vere six weeks ago. 

There are two slaves prostrated on the far end of the arena. Something strange sits in the pit of Damen's belly. He looks at the slaves. They're both slight in size. One has darker skin than him, his body slim and lean -- not fit for a soldier, but suited to him. The other, a woman, is slightly lighter with long, dark hair and a slender build. Light catches off their gold collars. If Damen required something -- _anything_ at all -- of them, all he need do is say a word and he wouldn't even need to lift a finger. It'd be done. That's just the way it is. He's never thought to question it before. Some men are born kings. Some men are born slaves. 

But this strange feeling still churns in is stomach. Damen can't quite put a name to the feeling, but he can recall the disgust that filled Auguste and his brother at the mere mention of slaves. As though the idea was so unnatural it was worse than a crime. Slaves offer their completely and utter submission as a part of a pact. Submission for perfect treatment. Damen can never imagine harming any of the slaves. They're delicate. Loyal and precious. It would be just... _wrong_.

"Is something on your mind?" Nikandros asks, pulling Damen from his thoughts. "You seem distracted."

"I was..." Damen looks at his friend. "I was thinking about the slaves over there."

"The slaves?" he questions. Surprised as such an answers. "Whatever for?"

Damen's gaze lingers upon Nikandros for a brief moment before sweeping back to the two slaves again. A soldier -- who has yet to notice his prince is there -- has entered the arena and is being tended to.

"Have you ever wondered what it's like?" Damen asks. 

"What what's like?"

"Being a," he lowers his voice, "slave."

The heavy fall of Nikandros' gaze lands upon him quick and hard. Such a question is hardly appropriate. Such a notion is beneath the two of them, especially Damen. 

"Of course I haven't," he answers. "Why would I? What is it, Damianos? What troubles you?"

"Nothing." Damen takes a moment to acknowledge and dismiss the soldier who's come to show his respect. When that's done with, Nikandros is still waiting for an answer. Damen sighs. "I don't know. Vere does not keep slaves."

"I'm aware. I've been called barbaric at the border on more than one occasion. Is that what this is about?"

Taking a step back into the sawdust, Damen gives a testing swing of his sword. The blade whizzes through the air. A quick back and forth until he swings it at the wooden beam. It lands, swift and accurate, and chops right into it. Damen yanks it right back out and aims for the other side, once again hitting his mark with ease. 

"They keep pets," he says when he pulls his sword out again. "They're... different, I suppose. Contracted. They come and go as they please."

"Damen." Nikandros places a gentle hand upon Damen's shoulder. "Why is this bothering you?"

There's no real answer to that. Damen isn't quite sure why it's even on his mind at all. This is his country. These things have never bothered him before. There's no reason to be bothered by them now. 

"It doesn't," Damen says. And might be lying, he's not sure. "It's just... Auguste was so..."

"The Prince of Vere? You're really worried about what the Veretian Prince has to say about _your_ kingdom? Damen, he's the prince of _Vere_."

"And my friend."

Thoughts circle through Nikandros' eyes, several of which die before he voices any of them. He sighs and pinches the spot between his eyes as though suddenly plagued with a headache. 

"Just like that?" he asks. "After a lifetime of being your enemy, in just two short weeks, you now consider him friend? Not just ally, but friend?"

It must seem strange, Damen can afford him that. As children they used to dream of battle. Of charging into the field, side by side, sword in hand and taking down as many Veretians as possible. To stick a blade between their prince's ribs would have meant honor and glory. The thought now turns Damen's belly. 

"You did not meet him," Damen says. "He's a good man. Honorable."

"An honorable Veretian?" Nikandros questions him. "Have you said such things in front of your father?"

Damen flushes, hard. He hasn't, in fact, uttered a word of this in front of his father _or_ his brother. They've discussed his trip, of course, in details more concerning the accommodations and treatments Damen received. 

Theomedes wanted to know how welcoming the Veretians were and whether or not his son was given the respect he deserved. Damen has assured him his hosts were more respectful than necessary. Theomedes claimed Aleron to be deliberately over the top, and while it wasn't like Damen to disagree with his father, he didn't think that was true. Kastor, with a sly, unusual grin, asked if they allowed Damen to participate in their very public acts. Damen declined to answer any questions about that at all. Then, strangely, his father asked about Little Laurent. 

"Did you meet the younger brother?"

"Laurent?" He nodded. "I did."

"And what did you think of him?" his father asked. 

"He was... curious." Damen told him. "A little shy, but unafraid of toil, I think." He smiled softly. "He likes to read. Why do you ask, Father?"

"It matters not." He grinned then and embraced Damen in a tight hug. "It is good to have you home, son." 

They drank after that. Father and son. Their weight worth of wine. Celebrating Damen's return. Surrounded by nobility and soldiers and servants and slaves. And Damen woke up in bed with a headache and next to a lovely, big breasted brunette. Streaks of sunshine blonde running through her soft locks of hair.

It's a time he'll remember always. His father hasn't been well. Nikandros doesn't know that. Only Damen and Kastor and a palace physician do. 

"I take it by your silence," Nikandros says, "that you have not."

Damen nods. "I haven't. But Auguste _is_ my friend. And I do think him to be just as honorable as you and me."

"In just two weeks. You spend two weeks with him and have drawn that conclusion."

"Yes."

Sighing, Nikandros shakes his head and gets out a soft, unamused chuckle. He rubs the back of his neck and wipes a bit of perspiration away. 

"You'll never change, will you?" he asks. "Two months ago you were ready to ride in and kill. Now I can't even speak ill of him."

"If you trust me, Nikandros, you'll trust him."

"I _do_ trust you, Damianos. But I know you. I know that when you give a man your loyalty, you give it with your dying breath. Even if that man's hands were the ones around your throat."

"Nik--"

"No, listen, please, Damen." Nikandros lowers his voice. He clasps a hand around Damen's arm and guides him to the other end of the arena as though worried the walls might talk. There are only a few soldiers training and the two slaves. A servant or two there to hand out equipment. "You know I serve you at the border. There have been rumors of unrest. Of Veretian soldiers crossing into Akielon villages."

That's not right. It can't be. Auguste said he was leaving for border patrol just a few days after Damen returned for home. He wouldn't allow such a thing. Just like Damen wouldn't. 

"If such rumors are true," says Damen, "You believe Auguste to be behind the acts?"

A pause. Then, "Initially. Yes. The rumors started upon his arrival."

There's more. Something else that Nikandros knows or believes that he hasn't shared yet. It floats gently along his mind. Damen can see it growing along the edges of his dark eyes as he debates whether or not he should divulge the information. 

"Speak freely," Damen tells him. "What do you have to say?"

"It's just..." He hesitates. "Your brother."

"Kastor? What about him?"

Nerves play at the corners of Nikandros' mouth. This is a delicate topic, whatever it is he wants to discuss. 

"If what you say about the Prince of Vere is true, then the alternative is that someone is making it _look_ as though he's behind these raids."

Damen rattles his head. "You're not suggesting that Kastor--"

"He's always believed that he deserved the throne. And that you stole it from him." 

Nikandros doesn't go any further than that, though Damen is sure he's censored himself for the sake of speaking ill of his prince's brother. 

"Kastor would never hurt me," Damen replies. Remembers the way Auguste looked at Laurent. The fondness. The protective and loving way his arm folded around his shoulder. The brightness to his eyes whenever Laurent made him laugh. The way Kastor's never shared such looks or sentiments with him. "He's family."

"Damen..."

"Enough of this." Damen waves one of the servants over and hands him the weapons he's been using. "Let us retire. You leave Ios in two short days." He grabs Nikandros' shoulders with his two, big hands. "This are merry times, my friend! Let's use them to our advantage!"

Despite himself and his heavy discussion, Damen's enthusiasm and hearty smile sees Nikandros grinning back at him. He lets out a chuckled scoff and hangs his head before agreeing and also handing his sword over. 

Damen shouts, happily, "That's more like it!" He swings a heavy arm over his friend's shoulders. "We require wine!" he shouts to no one in particular, but knows the order will be carried out and there will be enough wine to drown in when they reach the grand hall. "Lots of it!" Softer, to Nikandros, "I want you to meet the Lady I spoke of earlier that I'm courting. Beautiful. More beautiful than all the ladies in the kingdom."

"Let me guess," he says. "She's blonde."

"Ah. You _do_ know me too well," Damen laughs as they leave the arena laughing together. "Perhaps Lady Jokaste will dine with us tonight."

 

***

The evening is spent in high spirits. Bellies filled with heavy foods and heads filled with ever pouring wine. Slaves draped over laps bringing cups and treats to lips. Fanning off those who required a bit of fresh air. Laughs that could be heard throughout the halls of the palace. Someone requested a song that was sung softly in the background before the room was filled with boisterous voices of drunken, off-key melodies. 

Lady Jokaste had, indeed, spent the time dining with them, giving Damen the pleasure of her company. They stole privacy together. In the empty halls flushed with torch light where Jokaste allowed Damen to gently press her against the wall and brush his lips against her before escorting her back to his bedchamber.

"You can stay," he murmurs, propped up on an elbow among blankets and pillows as he watches her dress again. "You don't need to leave."

Her hair cascades down her back in wavy locks of gold, resting against her creamy skin in decadent beauty. Damen could stare at her for hours without getting bored. She glances at him over her shoulder, a soft, almost mischievous twinkle in her eyes and smiles. Jokaste turns and saunters back over. Crawls slightly over him before placing a soft, delicate hand upon his chest and pushing lightly. Just enough to ease him onto his back. 

"Are you trying to tempt me, Damianos?" Her voice is as rich as the wine they've been drinking all night. 

"Are you temptable?" 

Her lips curl up in a cool, easy grin. "No."

Damen smiles and brings his hands to rest at her waist. "I didn't think so." He guides her gently over his lap. "Is there nothing I can say to convince you to stay the night?"

"Make me your queen."

Smiling wider, Damen pressed a kiss into her neck. "That could be arranged." 

The touch of her smooth skin against his bare chest makes Damen shiver. She whispers kisses along the sensitive spot across his clavicles. Though not fully roused, if she keeps moving her lips in such a way, Damen will find himself that way soon. But Jokaste pulls away and slips from his lap. 

"I must take my leave, Exalted," she whispers. Adds one last kiss to his lips before gently caressing his cheek with the tips of her fingers. 

Damen takes hold of her hand. Softly folds it within both his own and brings her knuckles up to his mouth to press a sweet kiss there. 

"A parting gift for you then, Lady Jokaste," he murmurs. "May it see you safely home." 

Jokaste's hand squeezes in his. For the short time he's known her, Damen's never seen her struck speechless. This has done the trick. Just a for a brief, speck of time, she can simply stare at him with stardust in her eyes before her lips turn up in a smile and she moves away. 

"The world does not deserve you, Damianos." 

She finishes dressing quickly, but with grace. None of her movements appear hastened or forced, and within seconds, her chiton is pinned, her sandals are laced, her hair is neatened, and she's once again just as presentable as she was when she walked into the bedchambers with Damen. Damen throws clothes on as well so he can escort her out.

"See her out safely," he instructs to one of the guards outside his door.

Right before she would leave, Jakoste places her hand over Damen's bicep. She looks at him full of too many thoughts and ideas Damen wouldn't even know where to start. 

"Whatever happens" -- she breathes a kiss against his cheek -- "I am honored to have known you." Jakoste gives him one more smile. "Good night, Damen."

Before Damen can reply beyond a simply good night, Jakoste makes her way down the hall. The guard Damen spoke to follows a few paces behind. Obeying his prince's orders. Damen lingers in the doorway as they leave. 

"Is there anything you need, Exalted?" the other soldier asks. 

"No," Damen says. "Have a good night." He goes back into his room, closing the door behind him. 

He pulls the pin from the clothing at his shoulder and lets it pile at his feet. Damen falls into bed, letting nothing but the warm, night air drape over him. 

He sleeps. For how long, he's unable to tell, for he's woken abruptly to the harsh sounds of pounding on the door and shouts of his name through the angry wood. 

"Damen!" It's Nikandros, but Damen only registers this after a few bleary moments. "Damianos!"

Scrambling from his bed, Damen doesn't even pause to grab something to cover himself with. He just rushes to his door, careful not to trip over his feet in darkened haste, and wretches the door open. 

"Nikandros?" He tries to rub more sleep from his eyes. Damen is still dizzy and lightheaded. "What is it? What's happened?"

Something isn't right. Guards are moving up and down the corridors. Not on patrol. In preparation. Before Nikandros can say what, they're joined by someone else. 

"Ah. You're awake. Are you excited brother?"

"Excited, Kastor?" Damen asks as Kastor comes to meet him. He carries a torch in one hand and a scroll in the other. His brother wears a broad smile. One Damen hasn't returned yet. "For what?"

Kastor raises his eyebrows in a manner most unimpressed. His eyes float over to Nikandros but when he speaks again it's still directed at Damen. 

"Did your friend not tell you?"

"I was about to," Nikandros says.

"Tell me what?" Damen insist. "What is it?"

That smile on Kastor's mouth deepens as he hands over the scroll he's been holding. "An urgent message from Makedon." Damen opens the paper to read and Kastor goes on. "Gather your troops, Damen. Vere has broken the treaty. You ride to war."

***

The ride north takes a little more than two weeks. They stop only when absolutely necessary and push on whenever possible. Food and supplies are rationed in the strictest ways. Damen's men fall in line under his command without any difficulties whatsoever. He never had any doubt. Two hundred men have left Ios with him. More have joined along the way. Kastor's patrol is riding three days behind them and Makedon's army is holding the lines at Marlas -- Vere's fort at Delfeur. 

Makedon's report was clear and straightforward. Soldiers of Vere crossed into a village of Sicyon; pillaging for goods. Food, cloth, money, weapons, horses. Their forces were driven back, but not without Akielon loses. According to the message, the Veretian soldiers caught claimed were acting under the orders of their prince. 

Damen's head spins with confusion. Throughout the journey, Nikandros has tried to make discussion with him, but other than basic strategy, Damen hasn't been in a talkative mood. He can't make heads or tails of this, even as the flags of reds and golds of lions that proclaim their encampment waving high in the distance. 

They're greeted by Makedon as soon as they reach the outskirts of the camp. 

"Exalted!" he exclaims. "A mighty fine day for a battle!"

"Makedon," Damen greets. He dismounts and hands the reins of his horse over to one of his soldiers. "What news from the front?"

They walk towards the tents. Damen, Makedon, and Nikandros. The largest one, set up in preparation of Damen's arrival. Inside is all arrange for him as well. There's a large, open space and beyond it a bed. A wooden bath -- empty, at the moment -- if Damen wishes to make use of it. And a wooden table, donned with a pitcher of water and a map of the area. Though Damen wishes for privacy it is not a luxury he can afford. He sits down at the table and waits for Makedon to share what he knows. 

"Their king is here. In the fort," he tells him. "He arrived three days ago."

Damen nods. He feared as much. "Has he sent word?"

"Just one. That he waits for our king. Tell me. When does he arrive?"

Next to him, Nikandros looks over, though Damen pays him no attention. There's no easy way to say this so Damen just does.

"He's not." Damen squares his shoulders. "The command is mine and mine alone. My father has fallen ill."

Makedon's eyes grow wide. A gasp fills the small area as his mouth drops open. He knows enough to keep his voice hushed. That this news is not something that should be spread lest their enemy nation find out prematurely. 

"King Theomedes? Ill? When? How?"

"About a week ago," Damen answers. "The physicians thought it unwise for him to leave. I am here in his stead."

There's a moment of shocked and stunned silence. It hasn't really occurred to Damen what it would mean to tell the men here that their king would not be coming to lead. He hasn't really had a chance to let it sink in for himself. All his dreams and yearnings for the glory of battle of including his father in them. Damen never thought he'd be doing this alone.

Makedon says, "You have my sympathies, Exalted."

"Right now," replies Damen, "I need your loyalty."

"And so you have it."

They spend time looking over the map, searching for weaknesses in the fort. War has not officially been declared, but it's always best to work out some sort of strategy. Veretian forts have always been their stronghold. If Damen's troops are to win this battle, they need to make their way inside that fort or get the Veretians out of it. 

They go over inventory and supply lists. Weapons and horses and armor. Troops. Those already here with Makedon and those arrived with Damen and those coming with Kastor. The best places to use them and how to spread them out.

They discuss tactical maneuvers and ideas for peaceful negotiations. Makedon is not interested in such talks, makes no attempt to hide such a fact, but goes along with them anyway. They might not understand it, but if there's a way to resolve this peacefully, Damen is willing to take it. 

Once they're finished, Damen dismisses them both and takes to writing a letter to King Aleron to announce his arrival and explain that he will be acting commander of this post. Damen sends the message off with a herald and can only hope it will be well received as he waits for a response. 

After riding for nearly two weeks straight, Damen would like nothing more than a hot meal and a bath. But there's still more that needs to be done. The message Makedon sent to his father claimed there was survivors of the raids. He needs to see them.

No one questions Damen when he asks to be brought to them. They're on the far end of the camp, bound by chains and rope to big, thick wooden posts. There are three of them though Damen knows six had originally been captured. He hasn't asked what happened to the others. The remaining are covered, head to toe, in bruises. One has a gash across his head that hasn't been tended to and another's eye is so swollen he cannot open it. Though this is something he'd rather do in private, Damen does not dismiss the guards stationed there. None of the prisoners regard him with any respect of his position despite the greetings he's received. 

“Have they been fed?” Damen asks. 

“Scraps, Exalted,” one of the guards answers. “More than they deserve.”

“I believe that’s my decision,” he replies, and earns himself a bow of the head from both guards. To the prisoners, in Veretian, “Answer my questions to my satisfaction and you will sleep tonight will full bellies.”

The man who can’t open his eye spits at Damen’s feet. The one next to him calls his father a horse’s ass. The third lifts his head. 

To him, Damen says, “Was this the act of a few? Or were you under orders?”

The man clenches his teeth. “We should have burned it to the ground and pissed in the ashes. That would have gone beyond our orders.”

Damen’s spine stiffens. The tiny hairs on his skin raise all over his body. One could blame the slight chill in the air. It’s cooler here, at night especially at night. That’s not it. Not why those little bumps cover him now. He suppresses a shiver. 

“Then you _were_ acting on orders.”

“Yes.”

“Your prince’s?”

He lifts his chin. “My prince knows honor far beyond your barbaric ways. He acts in retaliation for the _blood_ spilled in _your_ name under _your_ orders, _Damianos_.”

His insolence and disrespect earns him a hit to the face with the handle of the spear the guard closest to him holds. Blood spills from his mouth, along with a tooth. Damen does not reprimand the guard, as it _is_ what would happen should someone have spoken to his father in such a manner but he does hold his hand up to keep it from happening again. 

“Retaliation?” Damen asks. “Retaliation for what?”

“Blood for blood,” he growls. “For the raids in your name on the villages east of here. Nothing left but ash and death and _your_ country’s flags.”

Damen storms through the camp. Heart drumming against his chest, he’s never felt so much anger in his life. His hands shakes. His head spins. He recalls what Nikandros said to him regarding the rumors about Auguste the night before they were called to this campaign. _If what you say about the Prince of Vere is true, then the alternative is that someone is making it look as though he's behind these raids._ Now Damen has a Veretian soldier telling him attacks are being made against Vere in _his_ name. 

He finds who he’s looking for by the weaponry, and grabs Makedon by the arm to lead him back to his own tent. Nikandros is still with him. Which is good since Damen doesn’t trust himself right now. 

“Have there been attacks on Veretian villages?” Damen asks. 

“There have been rumors,” Makedon answers with a shrug of two large shoulders. “I didn’t think it relevant.”

Fire flames within Damen’s lungs. “You didn’t think it _relevant_ to let me know that there were attacks on villages in _my_ name?”

“Filthy lies from the mouths of filthy liars.” Makedon shrugs again. “There’s no truth to the lies, is there?”

“Of course not,” Nikandros says. “He would never.”

Damen scrubs a hand over his face. He’s tired and he’s achy and his head aches. He knows how to fight. Put a sword in his hand and point him in the direction of his enemy and Damn is confident he will emerge victorious. He can fight. He can win. 

But this is different. This is people acting in the names of others and lies and deceit. Damen doesn’t know what stories to trust or who the enemy really is. If there really is an enemy to fight. 

“Have we heard back from them yet?” he asks. 

Nikandros says, “No. But it’s only been a few hours.”

Damen nods and then takes his leave for the night. Tells them only to disturb him if Vere sends their herald or some emergency. He makes his way to his tent. The guards stationed outside are commonplace and he acknowledges them before pushing the flap out of the way and disappearing inside. 

Pulling at the leather strings of his armor, Damen begins to undress himself before realizing he’s not alone. She’s on her knees, forehead pressed to the ground and arms stretched out in front of her. The light from the torches shine off the gold cuffs around her wrists. Her blonde hair is pinned loosely behind her in a silver clip. Not a palace slave, but trained well enough that she doesn’t seem nervous with Damen’s approach. She lifts her head just enough to press a kiss to the top of his foot and his even brave enough to nuzzle a cheek into his ankle. 

Damen smiles and rewards her with a soft touch to the top of her head. A warm bath has already been drawn for him. 

“Come,” he says. “Undress and bathe me.”

She rises gracefully and brings her hands up to him to continue taking his armor off. She works swiftly, nimble fingers working his off the armor all his clothes before she guides him to the tub. Damen settles into the warm water and closes his eyes. Lets it sooth into achy muscles and tired bones. When she squeezes the water out of the sponge onto his chest and gently rubs it over his skin, Damen suddenly hears a little voice of discontment. 

_“It’s barbaric_ ,” Little Laurent had said. _“Stripping a person’s willpower from them_.”

Auguste had agreed. 

Damen has since, of course, partaken the use of slaves, but perhaps it is the thought of Auguste so nearby that ails him now. Would he be disgusted to see Damen served this way? Damen knows that they use servants and their pets in Vere, slavery is different somehow, and when the young woman finishes washing and drying him, he kisses her sweetly on the cheek in thanks and dismisses her for the night. 

In the morning, Damen is greeted by a herald sent by the king of Vere who informs him King Aleron refuses to conduct business of, in his own words, _peace talks_ when King Theomedes couldn’t be bothered to come. Damen had feared as much would happen without sharing the information about his father’s health. It’s still not something he wants to share, but if it will avoid a fight, he might have to. 

By the third message of the day, Damen sends his herald with the news. It finally gets them somewhere. 

As the day wears on, Damen finds himself wishing these negotiations were with another country. Or even happening two months ago. Two months ago, Damen would be very willing to scratch the itch to fight. There’d be no questions about it. Damen would be telling his men to suit up and ride out with him ready to slice down anyone who got in their way. But now one of the sliced down men might be Auguste. Damen can’t stomach the idea. 

“Our countries have seen diplomacy successful not two months ago,” Damen says at midday. This will be the fifth exchange between heralds. “Is that so impossible now?”

The Veretian herald sneers and spits at Damen’s feet. “The king’s brother is wise and said you would say such things. Our king has no time to waste with those who break treaties at the first signs of trust.”

“I have not broken our treaty,” Damen insists. For, what seems like, the hundredth time that day. “Whoever attacked your villages did so on their own. Not in my name.”

“Our prince rallies his troops. See if you cowards can take on a real army. Not just a village full of innocent men, women, and children.”

Damen sighs. “This doesn’t have to end in violence.”

He knows both Nikandros and Makedon take a glance in his direction when he says that. Damen doesn’t acknowledge either of them. 

“It’s what you barbarians live for.” The herald stands up straight. 

Dismissing him with a wave of his hand, Damen doesn’t bother with a reply. Not yet. His head is reeling with one too many thoughts -- like spools of yarn that have been tangled together -- and he needs time to sort through them all. 

“The Prince is done for now,” he hears someone say. Nikandros. All those present begin to leave. “Damen,” Nikandros murmurs when it’s just the two of them. “What’s going on?”

“I’m weighing my options,” he mutters, brow dropped in his hand. 

On the dais in front of them is a pitcher of wine. Nikandros pours some out for Damen and pushes the chalice into his hand. 

“Listen to me, please,” he says, softly. “I know you worry for your friend.”

“Nik--”

“No, please, _listen_.” Damen nods for Nikandros to go on. “Whatever the truth behind these raids is, you’re never going to learn it this way. The Prince of Vere is going to meet you in battle if that’s what his king wants.”

He’s right. Damen knows that. Just as Damen would ride out and meet Auguste in battle if his own father was here to command it. That’s what puts lead in his stomach. 

“I know,” Damen answers. “I just wish there was another way.”

There’s a long stretch of silence between them. A silence that Damen first welcomes. The morning has been filled with voices and discussions and planning. This feels like the first time since the evening Jokaste left his bedchambers that Damen’s not being bombarded with some matter. Until he lifts his gaze and finds Nikandros watching him with a strange look upon his face. 

“What?” Damen asks. “What is it?”

Something of a crooked grin pulls up on Nikandros’ mouth. “What did you _do_ in Vere?”

A smile, not full though not false either, tugs at Damen’s lips. “Nothing unusual. We rode. Auguste showed me around the city. There was a banquet in my honor.” Damen chuckles. “That was boring, so Auguste snuck us away from it. We sparred.” He leaves out the fact that he won. “We even went on a hunt together.”

“Did you meet his brother?”

“Oh yes.” Damen hides his next smile. Full and very real at the thought of Little Laurent trailing behind them. “I do believe he would have gut me like a fish in my sleep if he had the chance.” Nikandros lifts his eyebrows. Damen explains, “I called him ‘sunshine’. He… didn’t take to it very well.”

Nikandros rolls his eyes. Though Damen’s quite sure this is his friend’s way of taking his mind off of what it should be on, he welcomes the distraction. He needs it. Even if only for a moment or two. 

“Then, they’re not very alike? The brothers of Vere?”

“No. Not at all. Auguste is athletic, personable. The champion of the two. You’d like him, I promise you that.”

“So you’ve said,” Nikandros replies. “I take it the little one is jealous then?”

“You would think that. But no. They’re very devoted to each other. Laurent is…” Damen holds back another smile. “Different. He’s quiet. Until he has something to say. He reads a lot. He even read to me.”

“What did he read to you?”

“A love story.”

“And now I’ve heard everything.”

Damen, with a laugh upon his lips, shoves him. “Shut up.”

They both share a laugh and for just one second Damen can pretend that this will end. That whatever happens here won’t change everything.

“Exalted!”

A soldier comes rushing up to the dais and drops to one knee. He’s not from Damen’s troops. This man is from Kastor’s champaign. Kastor isn’t due to arrive for another two days. 

“Is my brother here already?” Damen asks. 

“No, sir.” He lifts his head. “Your brother… isn’t coming.”

“What do you mean he _isn’t_ coming?” Nikandros says.

“Forgive me, Exalted, for bringing this news.” He hesitates. “Your brother stays behind because... the king has died.”

He goes on to say that Kastor has stayed in Ios to maintain rule and order in Damen’s absence, but Damen stops listening after that. Or maybe everything else just fades away. The words that circle around Damen now hurt and suffocate him. He can’t breathe and yet the air continues to move through him. His heart goes on beating even though it seems to have shattered into thousands of pieces. 

“Damen?”

Nikandros’ voice seeps in through the thick fog that rolls through Damen’s mind. He glances up at him. The soldier who delivered the news is nowhere to be found. 

“Gather the troops,” Damen hears himself saying. He pushes away from the dais and storms towards the stables. “We ride into battle.”

***

Once the decision was made, Damen sent once last message with his herald over to the King of Vere. If the violence of Akielos is what they wanted, it’s what they would get. Within the hour, Nikandros and Makedon had the troops prepared and ready. 

“Damianos,” Nikandros had said earlier. “I know you’re upset…”

“You’ve wanted me to make a decision all day. Now I have. Either you ride with me or you don’t.”

“I do. I will. You know that.” Nikandros hastened his pace to keep up. “I just don’t want you to make any rash decisions, my King.”

That almost stopped Damen in his tracks. King. He was king. He hasn’t been crowned yet, but that’s what he is. And he needed to get back to Ios. To Kastor. _He always believed he deserved the crown._ Nikandros had warned him. _And that you stole it from him_.

Damen didn’t want to think such notions about his brother. That even the slightest amount of treachery could be found within a member of his own family. He still wasn’t sure if he thought it. 

“Damen,” Nikandros whispered and surprised Damen by pulling him in for a hug. “I’m sorry.”

As much as Damen would have loved to fully embrace the sentiment and hug back, he wrapped his arm around Nikandros for only a moment before pulling away again. 

“Thank you, old friend.”

“You’re sure this is what you want to do?”

“I need to get back to Ios. This will get us there quickest. This land belonged to us once. It’s time to take it back.”

Armored and battle-ready himself, Damen once again steps up to the dais. He wears the Akielon breastplate, the short leather skirt, the high Akielon sandals strapped to his knee. His arms are bare, as are his legs up to mid-thigh. The short red cape is pinned around his shoulders by the golden lion gifted by his father. All traditional. And yet Damen has never felt more out of place in his entire life.

Out in front of him an army -- _his_ army -- gathers and waits. A sea of red and gold that have all sworn fealty to him and will fall to their knee at his command. A hush falls upon them as he steps forward. 

“Men of Akielos,” he says, his words fall upon them with all with heavy accuracy. By now, news of King Theomedes’ death is well known, and though Damen is trying to shed his role as prince and step into his place as king, this wound is still so raw and fresh he’s not sure how to do that. “Ride with me. Ride with me as your king!”

The words burn in his throat. He’s not truly prepared to say them but as he does, he’s met with thunderous applause and a roar of approval. Spear-butts slamming into the ground, soldiers cheering, arms raising. Whatever’s happening to the south in Ios, whatever’s happening to the north is Arles, right here, right now, Damen is king. 

Damen swings up to the saddle of his horse. It’s hoof digs into the ground, overturning the dirt under it. Arching its neck back, as if knowing they’re on the cusp of war, the horse whinnies and shakes its head. Damen raises a fist.

Horns sound. Standards go up.

And they ride towards the lines to the waiting Veretian army. 

“They’ve come out of their fort,” says Nikandros. “Why?”

It makes no sense, really. The forts have always been Vere’s stronghold. Nearly impenetrable, they’re the saving grace and pride of Vere. 

“An honorable and noble fight, perhaps,” Damen suggests, as his eyes scan the first row of Veretian soldiers they approach. A burst of blue and silver in the distance as a helpless pang of jealousy descends upon him. 

Front and center, there to lead and command, is Auguste alongside his father. King and prince. Father and son. They catch eyes, and even at this distance, something still feels wrong, for Damen can still see the eyes of his friend. Of the man whom he shared friendly duels with and rode with and hunted with. 

Auguste, at the objection of his king and father, rides a few steps forward and calls out, “Damianos!”

Damen pulls on the reins and slows his horse. “Hold,” he says softly to his men.

“This does not need to end in bloodshed,” Auguste goes on. “It’s not too late. You and I can still find ways to end this peacefully just as our fathers did before us.”

Ice slithers through Damen’s veins. He has no way of knowing whether or not Auguste or Arleon or any of Vere knows that Theomedes is dead. 

“Exalted.” Makedon regards him like a child. “You’re wasting time.”

“I said _hold_ ,” Damen repeats. To Auguste, “The time for diplomacy is over. I have tried to find peace with words. You would not have it.”

Auguste pushes his horse a few more steps towards Damen and his army. He even circles around once, showing his back in utmost trust. 

“All I ask is but a moment of your time. No more heralds. Just you and I, Damen. Man to man. As friends.”

“ _Damen,_ ” Nikandros growls. “It’s a trap. We’re too exposed.”

Without receiving an order, Makedon heaves forward. Damen snatches his horse’s reins and keeps him from going.

“I said _hold_.” Damen looks to Nikandros. “You have my orders.”

Damen rides out to meet Auguste in the center. 

“They say you attacked my villages,” Damen says.

“They say you attacked mine.” Auguste shakes his head. “I don’t believe them.”

“I don’t want to believe them. I don’t know what to believe, Auguste.”

He nods. “I understand. Call your men back, Damen. The two of us alone can accomplish more than a hundred men. We can--”

Auguste falls silent. Drowned out by the same sound that calls Damen’s attention. The unmistakable cry of arrows sailing through the air. Action explodes from the right. A burst of arrows from the branches and a surge of soldier from the trees. With Damen separated from his men. 

Damen watches in abject horror as those arrows pour down on the men who only hours ago pledged their allegiance to him. Some of the strike true. They hit. Men fall. 

“You _tricked_ me!” Damen snarls at a wide-eyed, pale-faced Auguste. “I _trusted_ you!”

“No! Damen, I didn’t!”

Drawing his sword, Damen holds it up and shouts for him men to ride to him. There’s a clamor of thunderous noise as both armies spring into action. Before anything else can be done, as Damen shouts orders and the situation falls upon him, he swings his blade at Auguste. Auguste pulls out his weapon and parries just in time, though Damen’s force is enough to almost knock him from his horse. He manages to stay on the saddle and draws back into the fray. 

After that, everything becomes an impersonal flash of faces and blades. Damen is more aware of horses and swords -- kill or be killed. He kills. Long, exhausting hours over bloodsoaked fields. It’s simply a matter of men getting out of his way or dying by his sword. 

In the beginning of the battle, men threw themselves at him. But when they saw what got them, they became a mess of clumsy footing trying to fall back. Damen’s sword meets sword. He meets armor, he meets flesh. Damen seeks out the center of formations as the form and tears through them. Once and only once a Veretian commander challenges him. Beyond their private battle, Damen spies Auguste. Fighting side by side with his father. 

Anger spiking, Damen allows for one clanging clash of the commander’s sword against his own blade before searing him in the throat. That absence inside of him is only partially filled by Nikandros fighting next to him -- a steady, practical force that Damen knows to fall back on and trust as he becomes narrowed to only one purpose. 

Seconds become minutes. Minutes become hours. And they drag on their bellies as men fall to slaughter all around him. Akielons. Veretians. They each fall back to their leaders. Rally. Attack again. Until the sky is as red as the ground. 

Damen’s body is bruised and battered. Something might be broken, he’s not sure -- he only let a physician tend to him for but a moment before returning to battle. Blood and dirt are caked to his skin, as though never able to be washed away again. Perhaps, in some way, maybe they never will. 

There’s a clash of swords behind him. He twirls to see two of his men brought down by a group of Veretian soldiers. The terrain they’re on is hilly. Random patches rock formations that give the higher ground to those who reach it first. Those Akielon men were alone even with that advantage and Damen charges up there to avenge them. 

The act of surprise takes the first two men. The next two go down after two easy swings. Damen has to spin around to avoid the blade of the fifth. Their weapons lock before Damen shoves him back. He grips the hilt of his sword with both hands and swings. The Veretian ducks and shoves his sword towards Damen. 

It’s the perfect storm. The sword comes in. Damen tries to move. His breastplate swings with his movements just enough that the blade pieces right through the side of his chest. The pain that tears through him has no chance to settle. The soldier pulls the sword out and backs away. Exposes a vulnerable left side of the Veretian armor. Damen lifts his own weapon. He ignores the pain. Ignores the agony that rips through him as he prepares to throw this one last, fatal blow. Damen brings his sword down…

“Damen, wait!”

…and pulls it up short as the soldier flings of his helm and Auguste stands before him. Open and exposed. 

Damen takes a tighter grip on his sword. Blood oozes out of the wound beneath his shoulder. He grinds his teeth and kicks Auguste’s helm back towards him. 

“ _Put it on_ ,” he growls. “Put it on and fight me. Or is all your honor found in lies and deceit?”

“Damianos,” Auguste says. Hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword as he keeps it between them. “I am your _friend_. There is _no_ lie or deceit between us.”

“Why should I believe you?” Damen thrusts his sword, finding his movements more sluggish than normal. “You led me away from my kingdom. Lured me away from my men. You--”

“ _No_! No, Damen!” Auguste stays on the defense. He does nothing to advance. “I never lied.” He parries another of Damen’s blows. “I never deceived you.”

Breaths backing up on him, Damen takes the distance between them as a chance to cover the fresh wound with his hand. Auguste, sweat soaked and blood stained, pants and lowers his weapon just enough for Damen to see. As if to show there is no danger. 

Auguste says, “Please, Damen. I didn’t do this anymore than you did. I only came here for border patrol.”

“Which is exactly when the attacks started,” Damen says. Taking his grip again on his sword. “Raise your weapon, Auguste.”

“No.” He doesn’t discard the sword nor does he raise it. “I promised Laurent I’d come home. You promised him you’d play chess. I just us want to keep our promises.” 

That makes Damen falter. He did make that promise. He promised to play chess with Laurent during his next visit. Auguste was there. He even smiled. There’s no doubt in his mind that Auguste made his as well. Damen can picture it. Picture Laurent looking up at his brother, bright-eyes wide and maybe just a bit weepy as he said goodbye, Auguste on bended-knee, hand ruffling Little Laurent’s hair as he promised to return in just a few weeks -- a promise he fully intended to keep. 

Damen feels his arms lowering, his sword going with them. Auguste couldn’t have -- _wouldn’t_ have -- made those promises, not Laurent, not to his beloved little brother, if there was this great of a chance he wouldn’t be able to keep them. 

He didn’t do this.

Someone else did.

Damen quickly reevaluates the situation. 

Someone is using them like pawns. They’ve been placed out on this board and now they’re playing a game of bloodshed and violence while the mastermind keeps their hands clean. 

“You…” Damen shudders. “You know who did this.”

“I…” Auguste sighs. “I might.”

There are troops coming upon them. Something crucial has happened. A turning point in the battle. Whatever happens between Damen and Auguste now will determine the outcome of the whole fight. 

A Veretian soldier breaks ahead of the rest. Auguste throws his hand out to keep him from advancing up the hill any further. 

“Jord!” he calls out. “Keep them back!”

Behind him, Damen knows his own men are coming. He can hear Nikandros rallying them. Hear them getting closer. This can be it. He can take the victory right here. Right now. 

Instead, Damen finds himself throwing his arm out like Auguste and shouting, “Hold back, Nikandros!”

He glances over his shoulder, turning his back on Auguste to see the shock and surprise ripple across Nikandros’ face. They slow, but no one stops. If they’re going to call a truce, even if only temporary, it has to be now. Damen turns back to Auguste to hold his hand out. 

Just before Auguste would take it, his entire body seizes and then goes completely still. A trail of blood drizzles out of the corner of his mouth and he falls into Damen’s arms with an Akielon dagger in his back. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there! thanks so much for reading and all the awesome comments! I really hope you enjoyed chapter 3 even with that bit of a cliffhanger there at the end. I still promise happy endings!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, i'm just going to go ahead and admit that i have no self control and i completely let my writing get away with me and i think "sure, this will be a short chapter" and then the next thing i know i'm approaching 10k and I'm like "damn it". So i've once again cut a chapter in half and added a chapter to the story this way my word count didn't totally get away from me and so that I could update again.

"Auguste!" Damen shouts as he lowers them both to the ground and yanks the dagger out of his back. 

Blood oozes from the wound. Soaks into the shirt under Auguste's armor and the dirt beneath them. Damen covers the wound with his hand, desperate to stop the bleeding. His hand is covered in seconds. The blood. There's just so much of it. 

"D-Damen..." Auguste coughs and shudders. "You... you have to--"

"Don't speak, Auguste," Damen quiets him. "Save your strength."

Their men are coming upon them. In a matter of moments they're going to be overcome by a senseless, bloody battle. The one Auguste called out to, Jord, reaches them first. He stumbles to a halt upon seeing his prince stabbed and bleeding in his enemy's arms. Jord takes a grip on his sword but advances no further. He locks eyes with Damen. It's only a breath of moment before another soldier arrives, but in that moment, Damen can see the conflict -- the _struggle_ \-- within Jord between what he might have seen and what he should do next. 

" _Prince-killer_!" a Veretian soldier cries.

He's just a few steps behind Jord. A familiar face. The soldier that sparred with Damen during his visit to Vere. Before he can get any closer, Jord twirls around and holds him off.

"No!" Their blades lock and Jord pushes Orlant back. "Stay back!"

Orlant staggers back, shock and disbelief shuddering over his face as he decides whether to listen to Jord or to keep trying to attack. A decision he doesn't get the chance to make since Nikandros charges at them. 

"Nikandros, stop!" Damen orders just before he can complete his swing. 

Nikandros pulls up short, stumbling slightly in the face of these new orders, and then nothing. With the help of Auguste's soldier, Damen's managed to steady this maybe long enough for him to make a choice.

The ground trembles with the approach of two armies, each ready to slaughter the other. Damen's eyes sweep over the battlefield, his mind quickly running the advantages and disadvantages of the terrain. The fort is the Veretian's stronghold. The best way for them to win a battle and they've left it in favor of meeting Damen's army here. Out in the open. It makes no sense. There's no tactical reason behind it. If Damen's going to minimize the blood loss, there's only one thing to do. 

"Surrender, Auguste," he murmurs. It's the best way for now. If these men will surrender, then Damen's men can claim the fort with minimal damage done. "Auguste, tell your men to surrender to me."

Auguste struggles for breath, and shivers. His face is very, very pale, all the color drained from even his lips. Still, he finds the strength in body and mind to flick his gaze to Jord. 

He doesn't like the idea, Jord, of surrendering. Not here, not to Akielos, when he's not sure what transpired when he was but a few steps away. Whether he really witnessed Damen's attempt to call a truce or Damen stabbing his opponent in the back. Just inches from where Auguste lies bleeding in Damen's arms is the dagger. An Akielon weapon coated in the Crowned Prince's blood. But even through a silent command of his dying prince Jord is loyal, and obeys. Calls for surrender to a stunned and bewildered army. 

"I accept your surrender," Damen says as the Veretians, amid confused chaos and disbelief, begin reluctantly dropping their weapons while Damen's army surrounds them. To Jord, breathless, "Fetch a physician. Quickly." 

It would be prudent to have a Veretian physician look over Auguste even though Damen trusts his own more. Damen doesn't really know who to trust, but if Auguste dies under the care of an Akielon physician, he's not sure if he'll be able to maintain any sort of shaky peace he gains here.

"Damianos..." Auguste clenches the top of Damen's breastplate and tugs with whatever feeble strength remains. "Laurent... please... don't..." He coughs and clenches his jaw. "Don't let him..."

"No one will harm your brother, Auguste." Damen has to stomp down the hurt that Auguste would think he'd ever let any of his men hurt Little Laurent. Even if he was here in Delfeur, Damen would keep Laurent away from all the politics that are about to take place. He'd be in no danger. Not from Akielos. "Don't worry."

From within the defeated Veretian army, people are pushing through. Physicians coming to tend to their prince. To take him away from blood-soaked fields just as the sun dips below the horizon, casting dark, grim shadows across the land. Where Damen and Auguste met to fight in someone else's game of manipulation and deceit. 

Auguste shakes his head. "No... Damen..." 

Auguste spits up some more blood, and whatever he wanted to say is lost to gagging that starts. His eyes roll back and close just as the physician get there. Damen is pushed out of the way and has to keep some of his soldiers back so they don't retaliate. These are not ordinary circumstances, and some leniency can be shown. Besides which, Damen might be wearing the skin of commander and king on the outside, but inside, he's just as desperate as Auguste's men to see him well. 

There's still one more order that Damen needs to hand out to ensure a clean victory. To keep the battle contained and lock it down for good. 

To Nikandros, Damen says, "Take the fort."

***

It's a swift win after that. The confusion makes it easy for Damen's troops to quickly subdue the rest of the Veretian army. Within the walls of the fort, their skeletal force buckles in the courtyard, and now, the red and gold of Akielos' flags fly against the star-studded sky -- flying above Marlas. 

Damen marches through the corridors of the fort, flanked by his guards. Akielon voices ring up and down, echoing a joyous verse of tonight's victory -- Makedon's unmistakable roar of laughter mixed with the ever flowing wine. The wound beneath his shoulder throbs, even all stitched up with Akielon salve over it. Damen ignores the pain -- there's still too much to be done. When he approaches the doorway, the two men station there straighten and click their heels together. Damen dismisses them -- and his own guards -- and he enters the antechamber alone, closing the doors behind him. 

He takes a minute to catch his breath. Braces himself against the wall, pulling gulps of air into his lungs, and tries quell the spinning in his head and the ringing in his ears. He thinks of what is yet to come. Of his name and victory spreading across the provinces -- up north to Arles and down south to Ios. Damen thinks of Auguste being taken into the fort a little over an hour ago to be worked on. No word has emerged from the physicians yet. Damen has yet to negotiate Vere's loss with their king, but Delfuer has, for now, changed ruling hands. This battle, he fears, is far from over. Even if all the bloodshed is done. 

When Damen can think no longer of what is to follow, he pushes the door open and heads into the small hall, where Nikandros is waiting. As soon as Damen enters, Nikandros drops to one knee. Slow and deliberate, head lowered. 

"The fort is yours," he says by means of greeting. "My King."

_King_.

That stops Damen short. It dawns upon him then that father is truly dead. He thought he'd accepted such a fact earlier today, when the news was delivered from nervous lips. _Your brother stays behind because... the king has died._ He's been given the title already, but it suddenly hits Damen that this is real. No longer will be returning to Ios as Prince Damianos. There is no Prince Damianos. He and Nikandros used to run through the palace halls barefoot as children and roamed through them after a day wrestling in the sawdust. In just one breath, everything has changed. 

"Rise, my old friend." Nikandros does as told and rises. There's a change between them, in the way Nikandros regards him -- a vast span of distance that cannot ever fully be crossed. "Tell me."

"Simple, so far," he says of clearing out the fort and taking over. "There's been little resistance since Auguste fell and surrendered to you. Those who have tried to fight have been quickly subdued."

He stops then, though Damen can see the thoughts that still stir in Nikandros's mind. Troublesome, they may be, given the pinch between his eyes.

"But?"

He hesitates, but does not falter in front of his king. 

"Rumors are spreading, Damen," he replies. "That you stabbed the Prince of Vere after he yielded." Damen's blood runs cold. "That you accepted his embrace and--"

"Shoved a blade in his back?" Damen asks. "Is that what they're saying?" He gets a slow, hesitant nod and no other answer. "Is that what you believe?"

"No." Nikandros answer is swift and prompt, and leaves no room for Damen to doubt the truth of it. "You are not a coward and would never stab a man in the back."

Under normal circumstances, that would make Damen feel exponentially better. Not now. Not with an entire country full of people easily willing to accept such lie as truth. That Damen would not only stab a man in the back, but a man he counted friend. A friend who held his hand out in truce. Unless Auguste makes a recovery, Damen's name will be dragged through the mud. _Prince-killer_ , Orlant had called him on the battlefield when he came upon them. A title that Damen will be branded with if Auguste dies. The thought turns in his stomach. 

Then another thought crashes over him. One he hadn't really considered until this very moment. Auguste, his friend, even if only for a short time, might really die. Such a possibility just doesn't feel real. None of this does. 

Damen wonders if maybe he's still in his bedroom at Ios after a night full of revelries, his head bubbling with wine and belly stuffed with food. Nikandros's laughter echoing in his ears and Lady Jokaste lying in bed with him. His father, the king, alive. This is nothing but a nightmare. One Damen just can't seem to wake from. 

Damen says, with a chill down his spine, "I need to negotiate the terms of surrender with King Aleron."

Nothing more than that needs to be said. Though neither Nikandros nor any other bannermen have officially pledged to Damen as their king, yet Nikandros still leaves the room without any protest to go fetch the King of Vere so that Damen may get these negotiations underway. He still needs to make the long journey home. Still needs to bury his father and seek the loyalty of the Kyros once he's ascended the throne and is crowned at the Kingsmeet. 

Damen finds himself hovered over a table pushed up against the wall. It's long and marble with lace trimmings that drape over it. The room is dripping in Veretian fashion. Tapestries and tall columns and polished marble floors. This land, the province, it belonged to Akielos once before -- years ago. Now, a Veretian fort stands for it and has fallen under new rule. He wonders whether or not it can remain the same on the inside when it's been changed on the outside. 

He's not kept waiting very long. When the doors open again, Damen straightens and turns again to see Nikandros coming back in with more than one person -- none of which is the one he was sent to get. They're flanked by six guards, all of them surrounding the two Veretians that have come back with Nikandros. 

"What is this?" Damen asks. 

"Forgive me, Exalted," says Nikdandros, "for not yet knowing the full details of today's battle." 

"The full details?" he questions. "What do you mean? Where is the king?"

"My brother is dead," answers Auguste's uncle. A pragmatic and straightforward response that holds the grief of a brother in mourning. "Killed by a stray arrow just before you stabbed my nephew."

His words strike Damen in the chest with amazing accuracy, each one like another stab of a blade. The wound beneath his shoulder, he thinks, pulses. Damen's careful not to show much of a response to them, but the curling of his fists and crushing of his jaw he just cannot help. 

"I did not stab Auguste," Damen replies, pushing the words out of his throat.

"Well, my nephew and heir to my brother's throne is being treated by physicians for a fatal stab wound to his back and hasn't opened his eyes since being brought back to this fort." He lifts his eyebrows. "Laurent is not eligible to rule until he's twenty-one, even in temporary status." 

Damen's stomach turns again at that. At the thought of Little Laurent left without both father and brother because of a fight that should never have happened. Will he believe the lies? Think Damen guilty of betraying Auguste's trust and stabbing him in a moment of truce and friendship? 

The king's brother gestures to the man that's accompanied him. "This is Guion. He's a member of the Veretian Council, here to testify that because of this unusual predicament, that I have been appointed as Regent, until either Auguste is well again or, if he passes, until Laurent can claim the throne."

Eyes passing from the Regent to Guion, Damen receives a hard glare and a nod of his head. That's really all Damen needs to verify what's been said as truth and he gestures for Guion to be removed from the room. There's no longer any reason for him to stay. All the guards leave, but the two that remain stationed at the door. Nikandros stands at Damen's side, silent as his king speaks with the new Regent of Vere. Damen has no way to refute this anyway and it does make sense. Auguste is hurt and might die. Laurent is just a child. The king's brother being their Regent only makes sense. 

After a moment, the Regent says, "I understand you wish to negotiate the terms of Vere's surrender?"

"That's right." An automatic response. Damen had expected to do this King Aleron, not his brother.

"Then I'm the one you need to speak with." The Regent strokes fingers over his beard. "Unless, of course, you need to first confer with your father." Damen's heart twists. He'd almost forgotten that it isn't public knowledge that his father has died. When he says nothing, "Is it true, then? What they're saying? King Themoedes is dead?"

Damen nods once. "It is."

A new emotion flickers over the Regent's face and Damen believes he recognizes the same emotion he feels for Auguste and Laurent: sympathy. 

"It seems we've all lost in some ways," the Regent sighs. "You have my condolences, Damianos."

"Thank you," Damen murmurs. "I'm sorry about your brother. And Auguste." Damen passes a hand over his face. "I did not stab him. Your nephew. Auguste was -- _is_ my friend."

The Regent seems to think on that for a moment. He then sighs and nods, as though coming to a decision that favors Damen. He looks up again.

"It will not be easy to convince my country of that when you're holding their army prisoner."

"Your men are not my prisoners," Damen contests. "They are free to go, as are you and whoever is here on the council with you. Peacefully, of course."

They'll be stripped of their armor and weapons, it's only practical and to be expected in attempt to prevent any sort of uprising. But Damen has no intention of holding any prisoners. It's what his father would have done, he knows that. Defluer would be raided by his troops to replenish supplies and gather more. Men, women, and children would be taken from the province and back to Ios as slaves. Damen will do no such thing. This was not an ordinary battle, and tactics need to be changed. He doesn't say this though. 

"You're letting my troops go free?" the Regent asks. 

"I am. I have your fort. I have the province." Damen pauses. Then, slow and careful, says, "For now."

Next to him, Nikandros stiffens. His gaze wanders to his king but he says nothing in response to what's been said. Like the Regent, he too, is unsure of Damen's meaning. 

"For now?" the Regent repeats. "How do you mean?"

"Simply that..." Damen avoids looking at Nikandros. "I am willing to give Marlas and Delfuer back over to Vere."

Once the words are out of his mouth, circling the room for all those to bare witness, Damen can fully appreciate the weight of them. Understand the reason for Nikandros's sudden gasp. A gasp that makes it impossible to keep from looking at him with that wide-eyed, shocked expression. A lot of good men -- soldiers and comrades -- have been lost, and Damen is about to hand over the very thing they lost their lives fighting for. 

This was supposed to have happened months ago. Akielos and Vere were readying for war over these very lands and, instead, found themselves in talks of peace, and Damen found himself a friend and ally. He's not willing to lose either of those. Not when he's been forced to play someone else's bloody game. 

As if knowing it cannot be so simple, a suspicious expression passes over the Regent's face. "In exchange for?" 

"We had a peace treaty between our countries," Damen says. "All I ask is that we continue to honor it."

"The treaty?" he asks. "You would have Vere continue to honor a treaty that _you_ broke?"

"He did _no such thing_ ," Nikandros growls. "I was _at_ the border. Peace was maintained until _your_ nephew arrived."

"Enough." Damen steps forward and puts himself between his friend and the Regent. "I do not deny there were raids on your villages. But there were raids on mine as well."

The Regent lifts his chin. "You're suggesting Auguste--"

"No," Damen interrupts. "I don't believe that. And I don't think Auguste believed I was behind the raids either."

Thinking on that for a moment, the Regent sighs and then nods as though he agrees. "Tell me, Damen. What happened out there today? What did Auguste tell you?"

So Damen tells him everything. Meeting Auguste out on the battlefield and their almost truce. About the realization that neither of them did the things they've been accused of and the freezing horror of knowing that someone else has been manipulating these games from the sidelines. About the Akielon dagger that ended up in Auguste's back even though Damen's men were coming up from the other side. 

The Regent hears it all. Listens intently with a careful expression and an open ear as Damen divulges what he can to one of the very few people who might be able to help. The only one who knows lost as Damen knows lost. 

"And my nephew," says the Regent, "knows the mastermind?"

"I don't know," Damen replies softly. "He only said he might know. He was stabbed before he could say anymore. Whatever he tried to say after was lost to the pain and daze of his injury."

When the Regent doesn't say anything after that, Damen just lets the silence stretch on between them. It makes Nikandros uncomfortable. Damen can tell by the uneasy way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, though he does so as discreetly as possible. 

After a long, drawn out moment, the Regent sighs and rubs the back of his neck. 

"You understand," he says. "That this is a difficult story to believe. That someone has been organizing attacks on villages in _both_ Vere and Akielos in both _your_ name _and_ my nephew's in an attempt to start a war? That this someone may have even managed to turn one or more of Auguste's own men against him? Enough that they'd even _attack_ their own prince?"

Hearing it spelled out in so many words does make Damen question his own sanity. He's not used to such ploys, such tactics. His life is one of straightforward complaints, when one should arise. This secrecy and plotting from the shadows, silver-tongued lies and rose petaled, deceitful ways are not things he's equipped to deal with. Damen barely even knows where to begin. 

"I know," he agrees. "It doesn't sound real. But _I_ did not order any attacks on your villages."

The Regent nods. "I cannot believe that my nephew did either. And as much as it would ease my aching heart to have someone to blame right now for the loss of my brother and maybe his son as well..." He hesitates and then sighs. "I'm inclined to believe you when you say you had nothing to do with these raids. You have an honorable way about you, Damianos. It would be troublesome to learn a man like you would be capable of such treachery." 

A smile touches Damen's lips. He glances over at Nikandros, who clearly shares the same sentiment as the Regent, however, not nearly the same gratitude as Damen. Nikandros doesn't trust the Regent. Not that Damen can blame him. Trust is a strong word -- one he cannot really afford to use for the man either. But right now, this is the man who holds the key to keeping the peace between their countries. Possibly one who can help unravel the twisted web they've all found themselves trapped in. Damen will take whatever help he can get. 

"I don't know anyone who is capable of such a thing," Damen says. "Who would _be_ so treacherous?"

"It's quite simple, really," the Regent replies. "You just need to figure out who would benefit most from _being_ so treacherous." 

***

That's the question that haunts Damen throughout his sleepless night. A possible answer floating along his mind like an unwanted ghost. _He's always believed that he deserved the throne,_ Nikandros had said. _And that you stole it from him._

Kastor. 

That had been Nikandros's suspicions and worries before any of this even happened and Damen had been naive enough to dismiss his thoughts without care. To be honest, Damen's _still_ not convinced this is his own brother's doing. It just doesn't make any sense. Or, rather, Damen just can't bring himself to believe it. That his own brother could be capable of causing him such harm. Kastor is... is his _brother_. 

When Theomedes illness worsened so quickly, he'd called both his sons to his bedside. Declared his love for Kastor -- his eldest, yet illegitimate son -- and his mother, and asked him to serve Damen -- the younger and yet true heir -- as he had served him. Kastor pledged himself to Damen then. Promised to serve his younger brother with the same loyalty and honor and love he had for their father. The thought of his brother doing this to him -- sabotaging Damen's name and honor, and even leading him to humiliation and death -- it's just nauseating. 

And yet...

Damen's fingers run across the scar just below his ribs, the first in his new collection, given to him by Kastor during a sparring match. The first time they used real steel. It had been Kastor's suggestion since, at thirteen, Damen disarmed him of his wooden practice sword. When he ran him through, Damen had foolishly thought his older brother was treating him with dignity and respect. _Kastor thinks of me as a man_ , he thought proudly. What he had missed then, what he remembers now, is the blackness in his eyes. The cruelness that curved up on his lips when his blade pierced through Damen's body. He'd wanted it to hurt. It pleased him that it did. 

The thought burns in Damen's stomach. Makes him want to rip something apart when there is nothing to be ripped apart. Even if Kastor did think ill enough of Damen that he'd want to betray him in such a way, Damen's not so sure he'd be able to pull such a task off. His brother is hardly lacking in intelligence, but this goes beyond the strategic wit of battle and tournament. If this was Kastor, this was somebody whispering in his ear. Silvery words he wanted to hear and golden words he needed to hear to make this happen. 

The question now... is who?

The knock on his door comes at midday. Damen hasn't gotten much sleep and he's fairly sure that Nikandros has protected whatever precious solitude he can afford to have. Being disturbed now must mean something important. 

"Yes?" he answers, sitting up in bed. "Come in."

Normally, Damen sleeps in the nude, but with all his unrest he didn't bother shedding his chiton. The door opens and a soldier Damen does not know sticks his head in. 

"Pardon the intrusion, Exalted," he says. "You wished to be informed when there was information to be shared about the Veretian Prince?"

Despite his lack of rest, all of Damen's energy peaks and he picks himself out of the bed quickly, the prospect of hearing news on Auguste -- any news at all -- pushing him to cross the room much more like an eager child than a king. 

"Yes," Damen answers, unable to keep the anxious thrill out of his voice. "What is it? What's happened?"

The soldier steps aside and opens the door wider. Behind him is a man that Damen can't place for a second. When he does, his heart rate picks up. The physician from the field who shoved him away from Auguste. He's here now, with one of Damen's soldiers who takes him by the arm and pulls him into the room. Holding his palm out, Damen tells him to let the physician go and then dismisses him. 

"How is he?" Damen asks when they're alone. "Auguste. Is he..."

"Alive?" he says, sharply, his voice scraping against stone. "For now. Yes. But I don't know for how long or if he'll even make it through another day."

Damen's throat tightens. In this man's eyes is the accusation that Nikandros warned him about, that the Regent concurred. He thinks his prince's life is flirting with death because of him. 

"Whatever you may think," says Damen, "I did not stab him. Auguste and I were trying to call a truce. I held him, bleeding in my arms. You saw me."

The physician gives him a long, hard stare -- one Damen does not shy away from. He can't. Damen knows he didn't do the things he's being accused of and he will not back down in the face of those who believe him guilty. After a few moments of this -- of an unrelenting gaze and a firm, stiff posture -- the physician sighs and gives in. 

"Forgive me, Your Highness," he says. "My name is Paschal. I've been looking after the both prince's health since they were babies. It was a long night. And morning." Paschal sighs, and suddenly looks racked with exhaustion. It sits heavily upon his shoulders and pulls dark circles under his eyes. "The Captain of the Prince's guard speaks on your behalf, but many are not willing to listen."

That really shouldn't be all that surprising. The treaty between their countries is new and still young. If Damen had not spent time with Auguste in Vere his thirst to go to war with the country would still be unquenched. He tries to imagine what it would look like if Nikandros came upon them and the roles were reversed. What if Damen had had Veretian steel sticking out of his back and fell into Auguste's arms. Not much, other than the words from Damen himself, would do to persuade his men and kingdom that Auguste was not the one to do it, even _with_ Nikandros to state otherwise as witness. 

"The captain of the guard," Damen wonders. "Would that be Jord?"

"That's right," Paschal agrees. "I suppose it's lucky for you that he joined the campaign."

"You mean he didn't accompany Auguste to the border?"

Paschal shakes his head. "No. He arrived with the second wave after the raids began under orders from the king."

"Why?"

It only seems sensible for Jord to have been with Auguste the whole time. Though he doesn't know anything about the man, Jord's already earned Damen's respect. Just the fact that Auguste trusted him says enough about the man. This Jord knows nothing about Damen either, and yet he's honorable enough to bestow Damen the benefit of the doubt when he could just as easily perpetuate the hate of an enemy king in an attempt to build up the tension between their countries. Instead, Jord seems to be the only one who doesn't believe Damen is guilty. 

But Paschal just shakes his head again. Tells Damen he doesn't know why Jord didn't travel to Delfeur with Auguste. After that, Paschal explains to Damen what Auguste's current condition is. That he still has not regained consciousness and that if he does there's no telling if any permanent damage has been done. All that's left to be done now is careful watching of his wound and hope. 

"Can I..." It's a strange feeling, this odd need to seek permission, but Damen doesn't feel it's his place to just go to wherever Auguste is healing. "Can I see him?"

A flicker of morbid amusement touches upon the brief smirk that curves up on Paschal's mouth. He shrugs and gestures for the door. 

"You can try."

***

Paschal leads Damen to the room. Three of Damen's guards accompany them along the way. Earlier in the day, most of the Veretian army was escorted out of the fort and sent back to their homes, just as Damen promised they'd be allowed. Still, there are unarmed Veretian soldiers and servants and even a few nobles up and down the halls as they approach. Damen ignores the glares. He ignores the silence, he ignores the insults. He even ignores the few _prince-killers_ that's thrown at him. He does not, however, ignore the man who spits at him, and Damen allows the guard to shove him to the ground and then haul him away. 

When the get to the room, Damen is surprised to see both Jord and Orlant stationed in front of the door. They both eye him warily as he approaches, though Jord regards him with a sense of unsure reserve while Orlant with contempt. 

"Have you come to finish the job, _prince-killer_?" Orlant sneers. 

Before Damen can even open his mouth, Jord mutters, "Orlant. Stop it. I've already told you--"

"That you're not _sure_ what happened," Orlant growls. 

Damen, though he would very much like to avoid any discourse right now, especially now, doesn't say a word and allows the argument to unfold before him. 

"Yes," Jord agrees, then sets his eyes on Damen. "But I saw the bereavement, and it was not false. I might not be fully sure what I saw, but I don't think the Prince..." He shakes his head. "The _King_ of Akielos did what everyone thinks."

"That's right, you've told us what you _think_ you saw," Orlant argues through clenched teeth. "You've told us what _might_ have happened. But you seem to be forgetting that what Akielon's can’t stuff with their cocks, they pierce with their swords." 

Having heard enough, Damen lifts a hand and tells one of the guard to take Orlant away. Once they're left without him, some of the tension eases. The hostility clears and, though Jord remains cautious, the air breathes and moves around them. 

Damen says, "Paschal tells me you stayed behind in Arles when Auguste first left for border patrol."

"That's right," Jord tells him. "I only came because my king sent me."

He says no more than that and Damen quickly realizes that Jord will not be divulging just why he stayed behind in the first place. Whatever the reason, Auguste must have found it of the most extreme importance. 

"I want you to know," Damen says. "I didn't hurt him. I wouldn't."

After a moment, "Auguste trusted you. He never believed you attacked our villages."

"I didn't." Damen sighs. "I never truly believed Auguste attacked mine either."

Damen can easily see why Auguste trusted Jord with whatever task he left him behind with. No more words are exchanged and yet they've seemed to reach a mutual agreement. Some sort of respect that's grown between them, even if it's rough and shaky at best. 

"King Damianos wishes to see Prince Auguste," Paschal says.

Jord's gaze slides from Damen to Paschal and then back to Damen again. Eyebrows lifting like he's sure this is a bad idea, he shrugs and steps away from the door.

"Good luck," he mutters as though Damen should very much reconsider going into the room just in front of him. 

Damen can't imagine what sort of scene he's about to walk into. He's seen injuries before, seen them being treated and tended to, and even the fatalities they cause. Just this past morning he's walked among the his own dead to ensure they'd have a proper burial, before assuring the Regent of Vere he'd show the same respect to his own fallen soldiers. Damen sat with his own dying father. What horrors wait for him on the other side of this door? 

Taking in a deep breath, Damen pushes the door open and goes into the room to face whatever might be there. Only nothing could have prepared him for what he finds. 

There's Auguste, tucked in the bed at the far end of the room, the blankets pulled up to his waist and a moist cloth over his brow. His torso is bare save for the dressings wrapped around his chest. A few pillows are at his side to keep him off his back. Auguste's skin is completely ashen, his lips have very little color at all and he's soaked in sweat. His breaths are weak and shallow, and on the small table next to the bed is a basin of water. There are cloths by the basin -- some fresh, some soiled with blood. 

All of this Damen did expect to see in one form or another. It's the crown of blonde seated at the side of the bed that he did not. 

Little Laurent sits right at his brother's bedside, both his hands clutching at Auguste's. Next to him is a small table with three plates of food on them. None of the food looks to be touched. He's slightly inclined towards the bed and murmuring -- quick and rushed words that he sounds desperate to get heard by the one they're meant for. A shudder runs through him and he sniffles and then just keeps going, speaking too softly for Damen to really understand, though he's able to catch a word or two. And what he does catch is, _please... wake up._

The entire scene is a swift kick to Damen's gut. Damen had no idea Laurent was even here, and now he's here to see him pleading with Auguste to be okay, to just wake up, to please, please wake up. It's almost too much for Damen to bare. 

"L-Laurent," Damen finds himself whispering. Laurent's spine stiffens. "Are you--"

The words fade away when Laurent swirls around. Eyes red and swollen, swimming with tears that dry immediately upon setting his furious glare on Damen. 

"Get _out_ ," he growls. Shoots up out of his seat, making it topple over in his haste. "Did you think I would let you come in here and stab my brother in his sleep just because stabbing him _in the back_ didn't work?"

"No!" Damen shakes his head and takes an unthinking step forward. "No, Laurent, I didn't--"

"Shut up," Laurent interrupts. "Your words are just as false as your honor."

"You don't understand, Laurent," Damen tries again. "I didn't... Auguste and I--"

" _Don't_ you say his name." Laurent cheeks are flushed, his eyes hard and livid. "Don't you _dare_ speak it. You... _you_ who pretend to be his friend and then lure him into a truce just to stick a blade between his ribs." He gives a cruel, vicious sneer. "Is it true what they say? That your father is _dead_?" Damen doesn't answer that, because he can't, his throat is too tight to speak at all. "Did you think I'd feel _sorry_ for you, you dumb brute? My father is _dead_ because of _you_. My _brother_ isn't far behind."

"Please, Laurent." Damen's not sure if he can refute what's been said. Aleron is dead because of a battle that Damen did not need to fight. Auguste lays here dying. He tried to warn Damen before it really began. And Damen hadn't listen. Arelon lost his life and Auguste might lose his, but Little Laurent, it seems, stands to lose the most. "I swear to you..."

"I wish I could have seen it," he says, calmly, coolly, and Damen doesn't know what he means. "I wish I could have been there to watch the life _leave_ his _barbaric_ body so I could have _spit_ on his corpse." Damen's stomach folds when he catches Laurent's meaning, the cruel, ruthless words demeaning his father and pouring effortlessly from such a sweet, innocent face. "I would let him be dragged through the streets for all to see him for the _animal_ he was."

Without thinking, Damen, red-hot with mournful anger, jerks forward and grabs Laurent by the shoulders. "Stop it, Laurent!"

The second -- the _instant_ \-- Damen is close and bent forward like that, Laurent slams the heel of his palm into the wound beneath Damen's shoulder. 

The world washes over in sheer agony, the pain blinding and nauseating. Ears ringing and knees buckling, Damen tumbles to the floor as the injury splits open again. Hands are upon him, and it takes Damen a disoriented moment to realize they belong to Jord and Nikandros.

"Get him out of here," Laurent orders as easily as lifting his glass for another drink. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading chapter 4! I hope you enjoyed! and i'm so sorry that i keep adding chapters. I _do_ have a plan totally outlined for this, but, as i said, i just keep letting it get away from me!


	5. Chapter 5

Damen hisses as Paschal, sitting on a stool in front of him, stitches his wound closed again. With Nikandros -- who came looking for Damen down at Auguste's room -- and Jord's assistance, Damen's gone back to his bedchambers. Where, now, another salve is being applied to his chest because Laurent jabbed the heel of his palm into Damen's knife wound. 

"Perhaps I should fetch one of our own physicians to look at that," Nikandros suggests.

In front of Damen, Paschal grins. "Are you suggesting my skills are not what they ought to be?"

"No. I just--"

"It's fine, Nikandros," Damen says. "I trust him."

"His prince just attacked you."

"He's _bereaved_ ," Jord says of Laurent as Paschal finishes the task. "His brother is everything to him."

"He's _vicious_ ," Nikandros shoots back. Lips pulled in a tight scowl. "Is that the way of Vere? To strike someone in an injury simply for the sake of causing harm?"

"That's enough," Damen says when Jord takes a step towards Nikandros and Nikandros wraps a hand around the hilt of his sword. "He's just lost half his family and might lose the rest." His head spins just thinking about it. "I'll try again tomorrow."

The look on Nikandros's face when Damen says this tells him all he needs to know, and when they're alone, Damen says, "You don't approve?"

Before answering, Nikandros paces around the room. He pauses by a window and stares out it for a few moments. Then shakes his head and sighs. 

"No. I know he was your friend, Damen," he says. "And, for some reason, you care for his little brother. But there is nothing more you can do for Auguste here. We need to get back to Ios. You need to take your place as king."

He's right. Damen knows he is. There's nothing left for Damen to do here in Delfeur. The treaty between Akielos and Vere has been maintained through the generosity and cooperation of the Regent. As their uncle, Auguste and Laurent will be well cared for. They have their childhood physician who's made it perfectly clear he'll be staying to watch over Auguste's health until he wakes or dies. Jord is loyal to Auguste -- and Laurent, it would seem -- and though he shows no fondness of Damen, Orlant is dedicated to his princes as well. 

Damen needs to return home so he give his father a proper burial. He needs to take his place as king. And if Kastor really is behind this senseless bloodbath, then Damen needs to deal with that as well, even if he just can't wrap his mind around the idea. 

Still, Damen says, "I can't leave yet."

"Damianos," Nikandros sighs. "If Kastor--"

"Auguste was trying to tell me something." Of that, Damen is certain. "Something important. If he wakes, I need to know what it was."

"Something more important than you returning to your country to take your crown?"

"Possibly." Damen scrubs hands over his face. This is unbearable -- skirting just along the edge of some greater scheme while unable to put all the pieces together. Damen feels as though he's trapped just outside a most precious room while it's eaten by fire and there's nothing he can do to put out the flames. "Something went on here, Nikandros. Someone attacked villages under our names. Someone wanted Auguste and I to meet in battle. Someone _used_ us."

Nikandros hesitates. He lifts a hand to his eyes and rubs. Exhausted, just like Damen is. 

He says, softly, "Your brother--"

"I know." Damen, as much as he wishes he could, cannot deny the possibility. "But if this is Kastor's work, he is not acting on his own."

"Damianos, if Kastor is behind this, then it's all the more reason for you to go back to Ios. The longer he's there on his own, the easier it will be for him to gain support against you."

Damen hadn't considered that. He always assumed his kingdom would simply be loyal to him, as the true son and heir of Theomedes. But with all these lies and treachery he's been suddenly caught in, there's no telling what webs Kastor might spin to ensure his victory over Damen. 

"A week," Damen mutters. 

"What?"

He looks up from the desk he's been leaning over. Filled with maps and supply lists and notices from nobility, all things Damen is tired of looking at. He longs for the simplicity of home. In a time when things made sense. 

"I'll stay a week," he clarifies. "If Auguste's condition does not change within that time, we ride for home."

***

In the morning, Damen does try again to see Auguste and gets no further than the door. Laurent is still sitting vigil at his brother's bedside, his back to Damen. For several, long moments, Damen only stands in the open doorway. The wound pulses strangely on his chest. A harsh reminder that Little Laurent -- his face innocent and his body slight -- is capable of causing a lot more damage than it might appear at just one glance. Damen needs to tread carefully. 

He wants to talk to Laurent. Explain to him that Damen didn't do what he thinks he did. For some reason, and Damen's not entirely sure why, Laurent believing in him matters almost as much as Auguste waking up. Instead of saying anything to announce his presence this time, Damen knocks on the door-frame. 

As if already knowing who's there, Laurent takes a hard look over his shoulder. One stone cold glare from him is enough to make Damen back out of the room, conceding with a slight nod of his head. 

"He won't be swayed," Jord tells him after Damen asks if he shared his thoughts on what really happened to Auguste with Laurent. "I told you, he's bereaved."

"He's cold, is what he is," Nikandros, who insisted he accompany this time, mutters. 

Damen says, "Would you be so different, old friend? If it was me in there instead of Auguste?"

Nikandros opens his mouth once before shutting it again and dropping his gaze. His feet shuffle before he looks up again and shakes his head. 

"Has he at least eaten anything?" he asks. Much to Damen's surprise, he asks Jord. "He's a child. He should."

Inside the room, Damen knows, are two different plates sitting on the table where three sat yesterday. The food on them looks, at the most, picked on and nibbled at. 

"He's brought a meal every time Paschal feeds Auguste," Jord answers. They're able to feed Auguste broth, that's what Damen's been told. It's better than letting him slowly starve. "But he doesn't eat more than a few bites."

"Then, you should..." Nikandros shifts his gaze from Jord back to Damen. "You should probably try to get him to eat something."

So the next day, Damen visits the kitchens before he goes back and brings with him a sack of oranges -- he saw Laurent eating the fruit many times during his visit to Vere -- and freshly baked bread. The meals have gone mostly untouched, but maybe something smaller will feel like less of a chore for Little Laurent when the rest of the world is crumbling around him. 

Damen's already met with Paschal -- one of the very few people Laurent permits in the room -- who's updated him on Auguste's condition. They're able to feed him a thicker stew this morning and are keeping his dressing fresh and clean. Other than an attempt to make him comfortable, there's not much else they can do. Since Damen's expected to meet with Nikandros and Makedon to discuss arrangements for heading back to Ios, Damen just sets the sack of oranges and silver platter of bread down in the doorway and backs away when Laurent looks over his shoulder. 

He doesn't mar the gesture by trying to talk. Laurent has made it perfectly clear that he has no intention of having any sort of conversation with him. Not yet, at least. If Damen is going to have any luck convincing Laurent that he can trust him -- that he's not guilty of possibly taking away the one person that means the world to him -- he needs to play by Laurent's rules. That starts with not speaking and keeping his distance. 

After the meeting -- where Damen discusses what supplies he expects to be gathered and maps out the quickest route back home and says nothing about relinquishing Marlas and Defluer back over the Vere -- Damen, finds himself wandering through the newly familiar corridors, heading back to the place he left this morning. 

There are other things he could be doing -- other things he _should_ be doing. Damen can be checking on horses and inspecting weapons. He can be meeting with his soldiers to make sure everything is progressing the way it should. He can even seek an audience with the Regent of Vere and his people to actively show their truce is still being upheld. And yet, without paying much attention to what he's doing, Damen, instead, wanders back to Auguste's room. 

A hard lump curls in his belly. It's should hardly be unexpected to see that the food he dropped off is still right where he left it. Sack of oranges still tied closed and bread, now cold, sitting on the silver platter. That doesn't lessen the hurts. Doesn't make the concern for his well-being go away. If Laurent doesn't start taking care of himself, he's going to get sick.

There are servants around, even his use of slaves though not in this area of the fort, and Damen almost calls someone over to have the food Laurent didn't accept from him removed. Only that doesn't feel right, having someone else do it when he brought them. Damen should take them away himself. Sighing, Damen bends to retrieve them only to catch a glimpse of something new in the room. 

It's not much. Just a small, bright color that catches Damen's eye and makes him hold back a smile. On the floor, by Laurent's feet, is an orange peel.

He means to straighten and leave. Damen's sure that's what he should do. Instead, he sits. Right on the other side of the door. He's not looking into the room, affording Laurent that privacy with his brother he craves. Maybe Laurent doesn't want to talk to him, but that doesn't mean that Damen can't talk anyway. He is, after all, a king. 

"I know you're angry with me, Laurent," he murmurs softly. "I would be angry, too, if..." Damen needs a second for this. He no longer knows if he ever really knew his brother. "If someone I loved that much was in that bed. But I did not put your brother in there." Damen lets a humorless laugh rumble through his chest. "It is strange, I suppose, how much I do care about him after knowing him so shortly. He is a good man, your brother. It's easy to care for him. I wish he'd had the chance to visit my kingdom so that everyone could have seen what I did. Then maybe they'd understand why I trust him so much." When Laurent doesn't answers, Damen sighs. "You don't believe me." Still no answers, but Damen knows it to be the truth, and it feels as though Laurent's struck him again. "I don't know how to convince you." 

When Damen hears a small sound from behind him, he quickly glances to the side to see Laurent standing by the edge of the door. Laurent looks down at him, eyes wet but not overflowing. He doesn't quite glare at Damen this time, though he's lacking any of that sweet shyness that was there the last time he looked upon him without complete hatred. 

"I didn't do this, Laurent," Damen whispers. "I didn't hurt Auguste."

It's his own fault, really. Laurent did warn him not to use his brother's name, and the second it falls from his lips, Laurent's nostrils flare, his eyes narrows, and the door slams shut. 

***

"A library?" Nikandros, confused, asks when Damen inquires about such a room here at the fort.

Damen should have expected such a reaction. It's been a peculiar day. Earlier, after being unable to sleep and before attending to his duties, Damen made his way out to the training arena, only to find it occupied by two unlikely people.

"No, no," Jord sighed. "Your stance is all wrong."

Nikandros huffed and attempted to rearrange his posture in a Veretian fashion only to have Jord take hold of his waist and shift him about.

"This is completely ridiculous," Nikandros muttered and pulled away. "It's war, not a ball. Are we sparring or dancing?"

"Can we not learn one from the other?" Jord asked. "Or do you prefer only knowing how to hack away with your sword?"

Nikandros scoffed but nodded. "Okay. Show me again."

Still unnoticed, Damen backed away and left them to their lessons, remembering, fondly, when Auguste had been kind enough to show him the same thing. Damen continued away from the training arena and found himself seated and served breakfast instead. 

Afterward, he'd gone to Auguste's room and spent most of the early morning sitting beside the door Laurent wouldn't let him cross. A king, sitting on the floor outside of a room guarded by the young prince of his former enemy nation. Damen didn't know what he was doing, but he felt the need to be there above all other places before going on with his duties and then found himself in a most restless mood. He's gone again to the training arena, but the physical exertion did little to ease his restive body. His mind was just too preoccupied with thoughts of the lonely room inside.

It was late in the afternoon when Damen was struck with the idea of asking about the library. Nikandros looks at him as though the question of whether or not there is one is the last thing he expected. 

"Yes, a library," Damen replies. "Is there one here?"

There are a few oranges missing from the bag that he left by the room after Laurent slammed the door, but Laurent has taken nothing else from him all day long -- though Paschal has assured him that he's, at least, drinking water.

"The pitcher is kept filled," Paschal says. "But the prince drinks it empty." 

Anytime Damen has tried to talk to Laurent, even just to gently speak the way he did yesterday, he's met with a glare fierce enough to turn sand to glass. But he knows Laurent is, at least, eating the oranges he's brought him and picking at the meals brought to him and drinking water. Perhaps he needs a little something more. Something more than just necessity. Something that brought them together once before.

"There is, actually," Nikandros tells him about the library. "A small one, but..." Nikandros waves him on. "This way, Exalted."

It is small, and even smaller because when they get there, Jord is already sitting at the one small desk in corner, hovered over a few scrolls. He looks up when they walk in, cheeks flushing as though embarrassed. 

"You speak Akielon?" Damen asks when he notices the words on the papers he's looking over. 

Jord flushes even harder. "Not much. I thought, maybe I should learn. Our countries are allies, after all. It... might do me good."

"I could help," Nikandros says.

Eyes going wide, Jord looks just as surprised as Damen feels at Nikandros's offer. Nikandros, however, simply clears his throat and takes a, somewhat timid, step forward. 

"If... if you'd like," he continues. 

They stare at each other for a moment, before Jord nods and Nikandros goes to stand beside him. Their voices are hushed -- Nikandros politely teaching Jord words he doesn't know -- as Damen searches among the books for the one he wants, even selecting a few others just in case. 

When Damen is leaving, he hears Jord say, quietly, "I could... teach you any Veretian you don't know," and he leaves grinning to himself. 

He clears his throat when he reaches Auguste's room. 

"Laurent?"

Laurent doesn't turn around.

"Aren't you through bothering us today?"

Damen flushes. He holds the books up even though Laurent is still not looking. 

"I thought, maybe, you'd... like these."

"I highly doubt I would like anything you've brought to me."

When Damen doesn't respond to that and still doesn't leave, Laurent sighs and finally takes a quick glance over his shoulder before swiftly turning back around again as if he's hardly interested at all. A heartbeat, then Laurent's shoulders tense and he slowly peers back at Damen again, his eyes falling to the books in his hands. 

"You..." His voice is smaller than Damen's ever heard. "You went to the library?"

Damen nods and lifts the books up more. "Yes. I only know this one." He holds up the book that Little Laurent read to him and, even in the dimly lit room, Damen can see the pink that brushes his cheeks. "But, I thought you might know these. Or might want to read them."

Laurent's jaw tightens as though he's trying to keep from showing the emotions that gather inside of him. Sucking in a deep breath, he turns back to Auguste's bed. 

For quite some time, a thick, tense silence stretches between them. Damen's mind is playing with the idea of just leaving the books in the same place he left the oranges -- which are almost all gone now -- when Laurent speaks again.

"Well," he says. "What are you waiting for?" He gestures to the table next to him. "Put them down there."

A small grin touches Damen's lips and he takes his first invited step into the room. His steps are measured. The last time he approached Laurent, he ended up on the floor with torn stitches. Over in the bed, Auguste's breaths are no longer labored and there's a bit of color to his cheeks. Damen puts the books down and notices that the chalice next to the pitcher of water is empty so he fills it again. 

"Do you want--"

With a flick of his fingers, Laurent shoos him away before he can finish asking if he can get him anything else. 

He can hear Laurent reading to Auguste as he makes his way down the corridor.

When Damen returns a few hours later, he finds Laurent asleep. While he's sure the boy has slept during the trying few days, this is the first time Damen's actually seen it. It's almost reassuring, knowing that even resilient Little Laurent is unable to remain awake at all times. His head is resting in his arms folded over the bed and his cheek is pressed against a page of one of the open books. First checking on Auguste, who no longer has a fever or the need to have a wet cloth pressed to his head, Damen murmurs to him. 

"Laurent is waiting for you, Auguste. You have to wake up for him. He needs you."

He rests a hand over Auguste's shoulder almost the way he would clasp it as though parting from a dear friend. He's getting stronger. Even in sleep, Damen can see that. All he needs to do is wake up. 

Before leaving, Damen takes a blanket and slips it over Laurent's shoulders. He's halfway to the door when he hears, "Did it hurt?"

Damen's heart leaps into his throat, but he shows no other sign that Laurent has startled him. He turns to see that Laurent has sat up and is watching him in that strange way he often did during his visit. As though trying to see inside of him. He's pulled that blanket tighter around him, too.

"Did what hurt?" Damen asks. 

"When my brother stabbed you."

He asks the question so casually it's almost frightening.

"It did. Very much." Damen reaches up, absently, and grazes the spot in question. "It hurts more that people think I stabbed him. And even worse that you believe it."

Laurent quickly looks away, but not before Damen catches the slight flush to his cheeks. A long moment of silence stretches between them, and in that moment, Damen can feel a shift in the air. 

"I didn't," Laurent whispers, his voice like that of a man's standing on the precipice. Someone deciding whether or not to make a final leap. "Not at first. But then... I saw him." His voice splinters. He reaches out and places a hand down on Auguste's wrist. "He trusted you. Auguste told me you'd protect me if he couldn't."

The thought actually strikes Damen as oddly humorous; Laurent needing protection. Even at such a young age he seems to be able to make an entire room of men go cold. Damen can't imagine what Laurent would need protecting from. 

"I wanted to, at one time," Damen admits, and can only trust that Laurent understands. "To kill the Crowned Prince of Vere would have meant honor and glory." Maybe it still would, in some ways. He'll be welcomed home a war hero. Celebrated and memorialized at the Kingsmeet as the one who killed their great enemy. But not to him -- not to Damen. The glory of the feat he did not do will be carried around like an ugly scar that only he can see. Meant for him to bare and bare alone. "Nikandros and I used to act out battles and wars with Vere."

"So did we," Laurent laughs darkly. "Kill the Akielons and all that. We used to race here, on our horses. Auguste used to let me win."

Damen glances over at Auguste and pictures him pulling back the reins of his horse at the last second to let Laurent draw ahead of him. A smile touches his lips with the thought. 

"It's different now, Laurent," he says. "I swear it is. I would never hurt your brother. Or you." Laurent flicks his gaze up at him. Damen sighs. "Maybe I did, by letting this happen. I should have listened to your brother when I had the chance. He tried to tell me. But I'll do whatever it takes--"

His words fritter away when Laurent suddenly sits up straight and looks at him with knitted golden eyebrows and tight lips. 

"He tried to talk to you?" he asks. "In the middle of a battle?"

"Yes," Damen answers. "I've told you. We were trying to call a truce. He--"

"What did he try to tell you?"

Damen shakes his head. "What?"

"What did my brother try to tell you?"

"I... I think he was trying to tell me how all this happened." Damen sighs. "I think he suspected someone--"

"That's enough." Laurent stands and moves closer to his brother. He touches Auguste's hand. For several minutes he just stands like that -- perfectly still with his back to Damen before he murmurs something much too quiet for Damen to hear.

"What was that?"

"Get out," Laurent suddenly orders. Eyes still on his brother. "Leave us."

"What?"

"I told you to get out." Laurent turns, the blanket falling from around his shoulders, and starts shoving at Damen. "I need to be alone. Get _out_ , Damen."

Though Laurent's strength isn't great enough to actually move Damen, the shock of his sudden and abrupt need to be alone -- even if this is the first time he's truly allowed Damen to be here -- pushes him out the door. When Damen turns around in an attempt to say something, all he gets is a door slammed in his face again. 

"Laurent?" Damen knocks on the door. "Laurent, what's going on?" When he gets no answer, Damen knocks harder and calls louder. "Laurent! Open the--" The door actually opens and Damen nearly topples back into the room. "Laurent--"

"Keep the corridors clear for me," Laurent demands. "No one is to come down these halls. No one is to come _near_ this room."

That's all he says before attempting to slam the door again, only this time, Damen shoves his arm in the way. Prevents the door from closing on him. 

"Wait," he grunts. "What's going on?"

"What's going on," Laurent says, "is that you're keeping the corridors clear for me for the rest of the evening. Because you're..." he forces the next part out, " _king_ here. And..." Laurent curls his lips up. "You can come back in the morning. Now _leave_."

A boot clad foot stomps down on top of Damen's. Laurent twists his heel once and Damen hisses, jerking away in pain -- pain, once again caused by the younger prince of Vere -- and gives Laurent all space he needs to get the door closed. The lock turns, the noise of it echoing through the stone corridors that Laurent's apparently tasked Damen with keeping clear. A bruise is already forming on Damen's foot, and as he looks at the thick wood between them, he wonders if he'll ever get used to Little Laurent's strange behavior. 

 

"But did he say _why_ he wanted the corridors cleared?" Jord asks after Damen relays the prince's message. He and Nikandros are still in the library. "Did he give you a reason?"

"Right before he invited me in for some wine, yes," Damen huffs. "He explained everything to me."

"Right." He clears his throat and stands. "I should..." Jord glances at Nikandros who, surprisingly -- or perhaps, not all that surprisingly any longer -- rises respectfully from the small table they've been sitting at when he does. "I should inform the men of our orders then." First giving a farewell to Damen, Jord makes for the door. Right before he would leave, he pauses, and says, in rough and accented Akielon, "Goodnight, Nikandros."

In Veretian, Nikandros replies, "To you as well, Jord." 

When they're alone, Damen finds himself smiling at his old friend. Nikandros, choosing to ignore the look of his friend and king, moves on to other matters instead of the peculiar friendship he's seemed to have struck with the Captain of Auguste's guard. 

"The books worked then?" he asks. "With the prince?" 

"I don't know actually," Damen tells him. "But he did speak to me. He let me enter the room before he kicked me out again and demanded that I make sure the corridors be kept clear for the night."

Nikandros shrugs and shakes his head. "He's a peculiar child, isn't he?" 

"Peculiar," Damen repeats with another smile on his lips. It feels nice to still have a reason to smile. "He is. He's sweet. In his own manner."

" _Sweet_?" Nikandros questions. "The boy reopens your knife wound, denies you entry to a room in what's _rightfully_ your own fort, and..." He glances down at their feet. "I take it the bruise on your foot is courtesy of this _sweet_ prince."

Though there's no denying what Nikandros says, the thought of Little Laurent being known only as this cold, harden prince leaves a sour taste in the back of Damen's mouth. Laurent might be different than what Damen is used to -- cool and guarded with the makings of something vicious if the coals are left to burn untended -- but there _is_ something precious and sweet inside of him, that much he's sure of. It was there in the small, shy boy who fell asleep reading to him the last night he spent in Vere. 

Rather than responding to the comments on Laurent, Damen says, "Speaking of peculiar..." 

He doesn't need to say any more than that. Nikandros sighs and drops back down in his chair. 

"What can I say?" He says of the hinted mention of his time spend with Jord. "I find his company less intolerable than I thought it would be." 

"And in just a few days time," Damen comments. "Perhaps, then, you can understand my feelings towards Auguste and Little Laurent better?" 

Glancing away, Nikandros heaves in a hard breath. "Forgive my questioning, Exalted. It was not my place. My king is wise." 

Wise. Damen thinks on the word as it strikes him in the chest like the palm of an angry, young prince. It's wrong for him. Fits him all wrong. 

"No." Damen sighs. "If I was wise, I would have stopped this from happening at all." 

***

Damen wakes in the middle of the night to the loud pounding on the door of his bedchambers. He hadn't meant to fall asleep at all, and, as it was, fell asleep at the table he'd been sitting in front of. The lamps are still lit and his dinner plates are still there. There are no slaves around to take care of such things since Damen keeps dismissing those that Nikandros sends to him. Damen hasn't told him to stop sending them, but hasn't made use of them either. A pang of guilt hits him every time he sends a slave away and sees the confused disappointment that washes over them, but Damen just can't bring himself to utilize their services. Not here. Not now. 

There's still knocking at the door. Damen pushes away from the table, his back and neck stiff from the way he fell asleep, and goes to see who's there. He cracks the door open without letting the person know he's there. Damen's not sure who's more surprised. Orlant for the way the door is suddenly opened or Damen for seeing Orlant there at all. 

"Yes?" Damen asks when nothing is said. "What is it?"

"I..." Orlant stumbles through the start of a few unspoken statements. "Forgive me for the late hour, Your Highness." He pushes formality through tight lips. "But I thought you should know that someone is headed for the Prince's room." 

Damen needs to hear no more than that. He's already stepping out into the hall with Orlant and making his way to the corridors he ordered cleared. 

"No," he says. "Orders were that no one was to enter that wing until morning."

"I know," Orlant agrees as he follows. "And those orders were being obeyed. The prince's men are loyal to him."

"Then what's--"

"It's not us," he tells him. "It's one of the Regent's men with the Regent's permission."

That almost stops Damen short. He's able to gather his thoughts before losing his footing, but he hadn't considered that Laurent's uncle would overturn his nephew's instructions. He has the authority to do so, as Regent, and the men that let this person pass had no choice but to allow it. 

"Who is it?" Damen asks. "Who's been let in?"

"That's why Jord sent me to you," Orlant explains. "His name is Govart."

He needs to be told nothing more than Govart was kicked out of the king's guard to move quicker. Damen doesn't like that the Regent keeps this man around. Likes even less that this Govart is in now in a room with Little Laurent. 

Leaving Orlant with explicit instructions to warn him if anything suspicious arises in the meantime, Damen sprints ahead. He needs to get there. Fast. 

The door is open when he does. Inside is the one Orlant spoke of, Govart, with a wide build and a crooked nose with blood dripping from it. He's breathing hard and heavy, _glaring_ at Little Laurent who's on the other end of the room with a table and stool and chair scattered between them. As though Govart went after him and Laurent attempted to block his way. 

"I _know_ it was you," Govart is growling. "You were in my room. You got your filthy, grubby little hands on _my_ things."

"I assure you," Laurent responds, "I have no idea what you're talking about, Govart. Go play _stooge_ to my uncle." 

"If you think I'm about to let a _boy_ who wants to fuck his brother--"

" _That is enough_!" Damen shouts as he charges into the room. For once he's grateful for all the Veretian frills and laces. It gives him more material to hold onto when he grabs Govart by the front of the shirt and slams him into the wall. "Is that how Veretians address their prince?"

"He _stole_ from me," Govart answers through clenched teeth. "He was in my room."

"I have not left these rooms since my brother was brought here," Laurent says calmly as though there isn't a man being shoved against the wall by the King of Akielos by his brother's bedside. "Why ever would I leave them to go into _your_ quarters?"

Govart shoves back against Damen, breaking free of his hold for but a moment before being pushed back again. Having fallen asleep at the table, it would seem, has an advantage, and Damen unsheathes the dagger at his hip to press it against Govart's throat. 

"Go ahead," Govart laughs darkly. " _Break_ the treaty. _Again_. Give us reason to slaughter you and your filthy nation."

"I never broke the treaty," Damen says. "And you forget, _you're_ here because of _my_ hospitality." He pulls the blade away and yanks Govart away from the wall, shoving him towards the door. "Now _get out_."

Govart stumbles towards the door, righting himself when he grabs hold of the doorframe. He turns a furious eye back at Damen and then looks at Laurent. 

"Your uncle will hear about this," he snarls before marching away. 

"He doesn't have access to your slaves, I hope," Laurent is saying before they're alone for more than a second or two. Damen watches as he fixes the overturned chair and brings it back over to the bed. Laurent sits. "He's in a foul mood and someone will pay for that." 

No one but Damen's men have access to the slaves. Under more normal circumstances, Damen would offer their use to the Regent as a good and faithful gesture, but, to be honest it never even occurred to him to make such an offer. He's glad of that now. If what Laurent says is true, Damen doesn't want Govart _near_ any of his country's slaves.

"I've been told you're not keeping slaves in your suites," Laurent says. 

"No," Damen answers, though he's not quite sure which of Laurent's statements he's actually answering. Dropping the dagger to the floor, Damen moves to kneel at Laurent's side. The closeness must startle him. Laurent holds in a gasp and looks at Damen with wide, almost frightened eyes. "Are you hurt?"

He doesn't appear to understand the nature of Damen's question. As though Damen checking on his well being is a feat beyond his thinking. 

"What?" 

"Did he hurt you?" Damen gently coaxes Laurent's chin to the side with one of his fingers. Laurent pulls away. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

Laurent covers the knuckles of his right hand, a place Damen would not have thought to check. Foolish not to have. Govart left here with a bloody nose that was not delivered by Damen. 

"Did you punch him?" 

Laurent squares his shoulders. "He came at me."

Holding his hand out, Damen hopes that Laurent will at least let him look at that much. If he doesn't know how to throw a proper punch, he might have very well injured himself. With a sigh, Laurent does, in fact, give his hand over and, though he's still and stiff, allows Damen the courtesy of inspecting it. The knuckles are bruised, though that much Damen expected. Laurent makes no other indications that he's hurt in anyway as Damen rolls it this way and that. 

"It was a good hit," Damen compliments after he lets Laurent take his hand back. "I think you broke his nose." 

He might fight it, but a smile turns up on Laurent's mouth. "It was crooked before I hit him." 

 

“I’m sure it was,” he replies. “What did he want?”

Fixing the bedding around Auguste, Laurent shrugs. “I assume exactly what he accused me of; going into his rooms and stealing from him.”

While he answers, Laurent turns to the side towards the small table that hasn’t been knocked over in the scuffle. On it, is his pitcher of water, which he lifts and pours some out into one of the two chalices there. Before setting the pitcher back down, he fills the one next to it as well. 

Damen considers all that’s gone on tonight. There was no reason for Govart to come down here tonight unless something of his was missing. And Laurent had the corridors clear. 

“Did you?” Damen asks. 

As Laurent takes a sip of his water, the corner of his mouth curves up. One of his thin shoulder lifts. 

“I can’t imagine how,” he says. “When would I have left this room?”

There is no answer to that. While Laurent had the halls emptied out, there are still guards stationed throughout the fort, Veretians down in this area. Damen, like Govart, has no real proof that Laurent left this room at all. 

Something though, something is off. He’s done something, Damen’s sure of it. It’s just a matter of figuring out what. 

That second cup of water has gone untouched, and Damen realizes, with a twitch of a smile, that Laurent poured it for him. Damen picks it up.

“Does this mean I can stay?”

Laurent is holding Auguste’s hand and keeps his gaze on his brother for a long, drawn out moment. Then he sniffs and slips off his seat to retrieve something from under the bed. He pulls out a marble chessboard. 

“I thought we could play,” he says, softly. 

Damen smiles and puts the board on the table next to the pitcher of water. 

 

“I have something for you,” Laurent says in the middle of their first game. He gestures to the trunk in front of the bed. “I thought you’d might like to try some new fashion.”

Inside the trunk is an entirely new set of clothes. Veretian in style. Damen holds back a grimace. Wearing Veretian clothes has never been any desire of his, but Little Laurent is watching intently, and Damen doesn’t wish to insult him. Especially now. 

Damen grins. Says, “This is very kind of you.”

“I’ll help you with them,” Laurent offers, and Damen doesn’t have the heart to tell him no.

He simply lets Laurent climb up on the chair to help him with all the tiny laces, hundreds of them, that run up the sleeves and across the shoulders and around the neck. By the time he’s finished, Damen is sure he’s never worn so much, and the frill and lace make him feel like an ornament. But Laurent steps off the chair and looks him over. He nods once, satisfied, before sitting back down and resuming their game like they’d never even paused. 

They’re playing their second game -- Little Laurent seeming pleasantly surprised that Damen is a skilled match for him, though Damen didn’t lose the first game on purpose -- when they’re interrupted. 

“Ah, perhaps you’ve found a worthy opponent then, nephew?” the Regent says by means of greetings. 

While Laurent keeps his eyes trained on the board in front of him, Damen’s stomach turns when he glances up to see the Regent stepping into the room with Govart and a half a dozen men behind him. 

“None as worthy as _you_ , Uncle,” Laurent replies as he makes a move to capture Damen’s king. “But Damianos is a challenge.”

“I would believe so.” The Regent comes closer, hovers over their game. “After his remarkable win on the battlefield.” He moves one of Damen’s pieces and looks at Laurent. “Checkmate.” 

Laurent looks over the board, but he must see what Damen already does. His uncle’s move has beaten him, again, from what Damen gathers. Face flushing, Laurent ducks his head down and huffs through his nose.

Glancing between them both, Damen feels a shudder from the bloodless yet violent exchange that just went on. He’s never experienced anything quite like it before. 

“What are you doing in here?” Damen asks. 

Gaze sweeping up from the top of his nephew’s head to Damen, the Regent smirks and moves further into the room. 

“Govart here” -- he gestures to him -- “is under the impression that something has been stolen from him.”

The men that the Regent has brought with him begin to move about the room. Not doing anything quite yet, but readying to when the signal is given. Laurent watches them, lips tight and eyes hard. His fingers are curled into the fabric of his pants. 

“Surely you don’t believe your nephew to be the culprit,” Damen says. Laurent eyes flick up to Damen. “He hasn’t let this room, has he?”

The Regent gives Damen a look that he can’t quite decipher before strolling back over to where Laurent sits and putting a hand at the back of his head. Laurent doesn’t move. 

“My nephew is a good boy,” he remarks. “I’ve told Govart that, but he seems unsatisfied. Laurent is to be king one day--”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Damen interrupts. “You speak as though Auguste has already died.”

All eyes in the room, save for, surprisingly, Laurent’s, fall upon the Crowned Prince. Cheeks with more color than they’ve had in days and breathing strong. The Regent concedes to Damen’s comment with a curt nod of the head. 

“ _If_ Laurent is to be king,” he amends his statement. “Then his men must trust him. There can be no loyalty without trust, can there?” The hand he’s had at the back of Laurent’s head slowly slips down to the back of Laurent’s neck, cupping slightly. “I doubt Laurent would mind very much if we searched the room for Govart’s missing property. If he has nothing to hide, he has nothing to fear.” 

“I don’t think--”

The swift, hard kick to his shin stops the rest of Damen’s statement. He hisses and grabs the spot, glimpsing at Laurent. 

“My uncle is right,” he says, smoothly. “They can search all they want. I’m sure they’ll be satisfied. As I said to Govart earlier. _I_ don’t have _anything_ of his.”

Wasting no more time, the Regent lifts his hand and the men begin going through the entire room. They leave no corner unturned, looking through the medical supplies and bedding and even reaching under the mattress of Auguste’s bed. They even have Laurent turn out his pockets and take off his boots. Laurent even goes as far as untucking his shirt to prove there’s nothing on him. Damen, of course, has the power to stop it all from happening. From simply ordering these men to cease tearing apart the room in a fruitless effort to find whatever it is they’re looking for. The pain in his shin, however, keeps him from doing so. 

Back in his seat, Laurent is putting the chess pieces back in order as though he’s simply readying for another game. His eyes lift up every now and then and watch the room being searched, but the air of unconcern around him sends a chill down Damen’s spine. 

“Are you quite satisfied then?” Laurent asks when the men inform the Regent that nothing’s been found. “Will Damianos and I be allowed to continue our time together?”

The Regent clicks his tongue. “Laurent, you know I’m only looking out for you best interests.”

“Of course, Uncle.”

“Good.” He places his hands upon Laurent’s shoulders. “You see, Govart? Didn’t I tell you my nephew would never do such a thing?” 

The only response to that is a series of mumbled swears and gruff mutters, none of which is all that flattering. The Regent glances around the room and dismisses the men, Govart going with them. He leaves with a parting glare at Laurent -- one Laurent either doesn’t notice or simply doesn’t care to acknowledge. Damen assumes the latter. 

To Damen, the Regent says, “I’d like a moment to speak with my nephew, if you wouldn’t mind. In private.” 

Rising out of his chair, Damen goes to leave. He’s just at the door when he takes a glance back into the room. Little Laurent is watching him go. Very closely. Blue eyes wide and lips turned down.

 _Auguste told me you'd protect me if he couldn't,_ Laurent told him. 

When he said it, Damen couldn’t imagine what he needed protecting from. The way he looks at him now, Damen still isn’t sure what it is he needs to be protected from, but he can’t leave him. Not when he looks at him like that. Auguste trusted his brother to Damen, and Damen will not see that trust forsaken. 

“I’ll do you the favor of stepping out of the room,” Damen says. “But I won’t be leaving.” To Laurent, “I’ll be just outside the door.” 

Damen leaves the door open, standing just on the other side. It’s not much for privacy, but it’s all he’s willing to give. He can hear bits of pieces of a broken conversation. 

“Tomorrow?” Laurent asks of a statement Damen did not catch. “But, Uncle, Auguste…” 

“It’s for the best, Laurent. We need to return home. Auguste can remain here with a small guard. If he wakes--”

“You’re leaving?” Damen says, moving back into the room. “You’re taking Laurent?”

All words cutting off, two pairs of eyes fall upon him barging into the room. Little Laurent’s face is drained of what little color it had to begin with. 

“So much for privacy,” the Regent says. 

Damen flushes. Says, “Is that what you’re doing? Are you taking Laurent back to Arles?”

“Is he your prisoner?” he asks. “If not, then yes, I am. My nephew and I need to return to Arles.”

“But what about Auguste?” Damen look to the bed. “What--”

“I’ll be leaving men with him and his physician. We leave at dawn.” The Regent looks at Laurent. “Be ready, nephew.” 

Without another word, the Regent sweeps out of the room.

Once they’re alone, Laurent drops back in his seat and suddenly looks exhausted. It reminds Damen of just how young he is. A child. Laurent is simply a child who has been tasked with the responsibilities of a grown man. 

“Laurent--”

“We can play again,” Laurent says and starts rearranging the pieces on the chessboard. “If you’d like. I hardly think that last one counted. My uncle beat me, not you.” 

For some reason, Laurent’s words feel heavier than they should.

***

There’s a gray tinge on the horizon. Everything is so quiet in the early hours. Something that should be peaceful, but instead holds all the makings of tragedy ready to strike. Damen doesn’t like it. 

The Regent’s men prepared for his and Laurent’s departure last night. Horses and supplies have been readied and in just an hour’s time, they’ll be leaving. Damen wants to think it’s for the best. Laurent’s uncle wishing to take him home should be a good thing. Damen needs to go home too. To face Kastor and whatever reality might crash upon him in doing so. 

But none of this feels right. Deep within Damen’s gut, the idea churns and makes ash of any logical conclusion he tries to come up with. The Regent is Auguste and Laurent’s uncle. Their father’s brother. Family. He wouldn’t hurt them. Then, of course, not that long ago, Damen was sure about that same thing of Kastor. 

_He’s my brother_ , he said to Nikandros. _He’d never hurt me_.

There were always things Damen thought he could count on forever. Ties, he believed to be unbreakable. Family. Friendship. The camaraderie found within both. Perhaps he has always been naive in his way of thinking. 

Sighing, Damen passes a hand over his face and gets out of bed. He can’t stop the Regent from taking Laurent, but he can -- and will -- bid Laurent farewell. 

The clothes Laurent had given to him yesterday afternoon are slung over the back of a chair. It’d taken Laurent asking Jord’s assistance with the laces to get them off last night. Though he has no desire to start dressing in such ostentatious fashion, Damen wonders if it will please Little Laurent to see him in such dressings one more time.

He won’t be able to dress himself in these, but perhaps Jord will be willing to help him again. Damen lifts the jacket away from the chair. And something falls from the inside pocket. Envelopes, all with broken seals. Damen’s blood runs cold. The broken seals are all Akielon. 

Little Laurent’s confident face appears in his mind. Of course he didn’t fear the men searching the room. No one would dare check the King of Akielos. The gift to Damen hadn’t been a gift at all. Damen had been Laurent’s hiding place. 

Heart drumming against his ribs, Damen reaches down for the nearest one. A rush of blades stabs at his heart. Whatever faith in Kastor he’s tried to cling to is severed when he turns the envelope over. It’s addressed, in his brother’s handwriting, to King Aleron’s brother. 

Damen forces himself to read through every letter there. Through blinding anger of betrayal and deceit. To reading, in his own brother’s words, the plan for their father’s murder. A deal made between two usurpers. A kingdom for each at the simple price of a useless battle. Let those who stood in their way destroy one another. 

His hand shakes when puts the last letter down. Damen had always known if Kastor was behind this, someone whispered the words. Planted the seeds for roots to grow. He never expected that someone to be Jokaste, who Kastor, in his letters, has sworn protection of as his queen to be. 

When Damen looks up from the words, everything is the same, and yet, everything is different. As though he’d gone to sleep and woke up as an entirely new man. One who needed to face the treachery of a world he never thought possible. 

With no time to grieve for the loss of the man he was just moments ago, Damen rises. Things need to be taken care of with great haste. Carefully. One wrong move and everything will collapse around him. 

Letters clenched in his hand, Damen goes to find the man responsible for this. One of them. And instead finds Nikandros, coming towards his room. Hurried.

“Damen,” he says as he rushes over. “Something’s--”

“Who do you serve, Nikandros?” Damen asks, cutting Nikandros’s statement off like the strike of wipe.

His question nearly causes Nikandros to lose his footing. He halts. Blinks at his king and then drops to one knee.

“You, Exalted.” 

“Are you truly friend to me?”

Nikandros lifts his bowed head, confusion marring the spot between his eyes. “Of course, I am. I am loyal to you and only you, Damianos.” 

It turns Damen’s stomach, mistrusting his friend. Mistrusting those he always counted as loyal. But in just a few words, Nikandros makes him believe. He’s stood by Damen, always. And did, after all, try to warn him. 

“You warned me once,” Damen says, gesturing for his friend to stand. He shoves the letters at him. “About my brother.”

Nikandros scans the first letter, eyes going wide and mouth slacking. He gasps once. Even he, it would seem, still feels the shock and outrage of the very thing he warned Damen about.

“Damen,” he breathes. “Kastor… he…”

“Gather troops into the courtyard,” Damen instructs. “Under the guise of seeing the Regent off. Then we’ll--”

“Exalted,” Nikandros cuts him off, adding another quick bow of his head. “That’s just it. What I came to tell you.”

“What?” Damen doesn’t have time for this. “What is it?”

“The Regent of Vere is gone.”

Damen’s stomach flattens. “Gone?”

“That’s right. He must have left in the middle of the night, taking a small guard with him.”

The letters. That must be the reason for his hidden departure. For his rush to leave. Govart, whether obtaining the letters through trust or having them for blackmail, lost them. If the secret was exposed while they were still here they’d never get away with it. But Laurent had…

Damen gasps, a sudden rush of panic strangling him. 

“Laurent,” he says. “Where is Laurent? Did he take Laurent with him?”

“No, no.” Nikandros shakes his head. “Laurent is down with Auguste. Damen, Auguste…” 

“Oh, no…” Damen doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. “No. Auguste…”

“Is awake, Damen,” Nikandros interrupts to say. “Auguste is awake.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading chapter 5! i hope you're still enjoying!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am horrible. Life has been a real shit fest, so keeping things updated has just had to take a backburner and hasn't exactly been easy. But as promised to those who've asked, this hasn't been abandoned. I did want to make the chapter longer, but since i was entering a bit of a block, and it was a bit of a good spot to wrap up, i thought it was a good time to post. 
> 
> My apologies to anyone who still wants to read that I took so long to post. If you're still reading, that's awesome and thank you so much!

Damen’s never quite felt his heart beat the way it does as it does now. An unusual, frantic drumming as he races down the torch lit corridors towards Auguste’s room. He’s only mildly aware of the others around him. Nikandros for one, right behind him. A few of the prince’s men wishing to see for themselves if the whispered nighttime rumors are true. 

_Auguste is awake_ , Nikandros had said among other things. 

Things Damen must deal with that are of great importance, yes, but at the moment his concern is getting to Auguste. Seeing for himself that his friend and the heir to Vere’s throne is truly awake. There is so much to discuss. So much that has happened in so little time that Damen himself has barely had the chance to allow his mind to rest. 

The halls feel longer tonight. Darker and more winding. A twisted, stone labyrinth that Damen will never reach the end of where something of great importance lies waiting for him. 

When the prince’s room is finally in his sights, so close the iron hinges actually glow in the light of the torches, Damen pulls ahead. Leaves behind the few that are there around him in favor of completing this quest on his own. He needs to see for himself. Even if there’re men outside the door. Men he recognizes but doesn’t place at this very moment who place hands upon his shoulders as though attempting to keep him from going into the room at all. 

But Damen does not allow this. He is king here, and he pushes through anyway so that he may see with his own eyes. Then, for just one, shining moment, Damen drowns in the instant relief of seeing Auguste’s eyes open. He can barely even breathe under the weight of such a moment, the air freezing in his chest. Everyone will know now. It wasn’t him. He never dishonored his name or his country by stabbing a yielding prince in the back. More importantly, his _friend_ is _alive_. He’s sitting up in the bed that just a few hours ago may have very well been his deathbed. 

_Prince-killer_ , he will be no longer. 

Auguste is alive.

Damen goes to take another step farther into the room. Pauses. He’s yet to be noticed and instead of moving closer to his friend, he steps back. 

There is a reason why he hasn’t been noticed. That reason is the very reason why those outside the room are on the other side of the door and tried to keep him out. Their faces suddenly become clearer in the fog that had settled in Damen’s mind in his haste to get here. Jord and Orlant and even Pascal are not in here. 

Only Auguste and his brother. Little Laurent is curled up at the very edge of his bedside, fingers digging into Auguste’s sleeve as though he means to never let his older brother leave his side again. He’s crying. Very hard, from what Damen can tell though Laurent tries to mask it by smothering his face in the folds of Auguste’s arm. 

Still, the yellow-haired prince, who has, in the course of a week, injured Damen -- the King of Akielon -- twice, taken command of whole rooms of men, and somehow slithered his way into the room of a most untrustworthy man to retrieve proof of a sinister plot and hide them in a spot not even Damen would consider, trembles like a injured canary. Auguste runs a hand over golden locks of hair. Hushes his brother in a most kindly manner. 

“It’s okay, Laurent,” he murmurs. “I’m here now. I’m here.” 

Little Laurent says something back to him without lifting his mouth away from Auguste’s arm. 

“Don’t leave me again, Auguste.” He hiccups. “Please, don’t ever leave me.” 

Without calling any attention to himself, Damen slowly backs out of the room and softly closes the door behind him. 

Everyone out in the corridor -- some faces he knows, others he does not -- wait for his instruction. Damen steps away from them all for a moment to gather his thoughts. Inside that room, his newest friend is alive. A most important matter. Within the group of men, there is Nikandros, his closest confidant, and best friend -- the only one who knows about the trials and tribulations that await them. 

“Paschal?” Damen says. 

The physician steps forward. “Yes, Your Highness?”

“If you think it’s necessary to go in and check on Auguste’s well-being, then go ahead,” he instructs. “Other than that, this door is to remain closed. Let them be. Understand?”

“Yes,” Paschal answers. “I understand.” 

“Good. You may send someone to fetch me should you need me or if either of them wants my company. You three.” Damen points to Nikandros, Jord, and Orlant. “Come with me.” 

There’s no hesitation from Nikandros, who simply steps forward and follows as Damen sweeps away from the room. Both Jord and Orlant, however, take a few seconds to compose themselves before coming along. They do though. Damen can hear them. Even the confusion in their footsteps as they take the route to the throne room. 

Damen sits upon the throne with a heavy weight upon his shoulders. There is a great deal to be taken care of -- his father’s murder, his brother’s treason, the Regent’s betrayal -- and yet he finds himself thinking of the way Auguste and Laurent had embraced. The affection. The adoration between two brothers so different who would give the world for each other. Damen wonders if there had _ever_ been anyone who felt that way about him. The way he thought he once felt about his own brother. There’s even a thread, as thin as it may be, that still does. 

A prince-killer he is no more, but perhaps he is now and has always been a fool. 

“Exalted?” 

Damen lifts his heavy head. The three he had come with him and waiting for the reason for this trip to the throne room. Wonderments of sentimentality throughout Damen’s life are not what’re meant to be discussed here. 

To Jord and Orlant, Damen asks, “Do you know where the Regent was headed?”

The two exchange a glance. 

Jord says, “To Vere.”

“Should we have reason to suspect he’s gone elsewhere?” Orlant asks. 

For the first time, Orlant speaks to him with a tone soft and that of respect worthy towards a king. 

“I don’t know,” Damen answers truthfully. “It’s possible.”

“Where?” Jord asks. “Where else would he have to go?” 

Exchanging a glance with Nikandros, who appears at odds with himself and whether or not he agrees with Damen’s decision to include these two Veretians, Damen lets out a heavy exhale. 

“I’m going to ask you both a question and, at the moment, I truly do not care if you’re offended.” Damen inches forward. “Where does your loyalty truly lie? With your Crowned Prince? Or with his Regent uncle?”

Their reactions truly aren’t all surprising. It’s Orlant who appears offended -- face turning red as he grinds his teeth before attempting to even answer such a question. Jord, as Damen expected, while affronted, seems to understand the need for the question. Instead of showing his frustration in the same ways Orlant does, he bows his head. 

“My Prince,” he murmurs. “My loyalty lies with my prince and with his brother. Always.”

Orlant does nothing to lower himself any more than he already is to Damen. He simply squares his shoulders and nods. Once. 

“I would never betray my prince,” he says. It’s near a growl, but Damen hasn’t the time to worry about such things. “I am loyal to him.”

Talks about loyalty make Damen’s heart twist. He’d always counted all his country loyal to him. Damen had never considered, not once, even under council of his closest, that he’d be betrayed. By his own brother least of all. Damen tries to keep his voice from shaking, though finds it difficult with all the emotion gathered like rocks in his throat. 

“If I you told there may have been a plot,” he begins, “to kill the King and Crowned Prince of Vere, a plot arranged by the brother of King Aleron himself, would you believe it?” 

“Of course not,” Orlant growls. “Maybe you--”

Before he can say another word, Jord holds two arms out. One to keep Nikandros from moving towards Orlant which, surprisingly, does stop Nikandros in his tracks, and the other to silence Orlant. Whatever other words got caught within his mouth stay there. 

“We might--” He hesitates. “I may have reason to believe such a thing.” 

First glancing at Damen, Orlant says, “What are you saying?” 

“I am the best swordsman on the Prince’s Guard, do you argue this, Orlant?”

“No,” Orlant replies. “I don’t.”

“The Prince left me behind when he rode to Delfeur _specifically_ to look after his brother. He didn’t want him to be alone. And he would have ridden with him to Vere this morning if His Highness had not woken.” Jord looks down at his hands as though he may find some hidden message long ago written that he missed before. “What if… Perhaps…”

“What if Auguste’s reason he wanted you to be with Laurent,” Damen says, “is because he didn’t trust his own uncle.” 

The letters weigh heavy within the inside pocket of Damen’s chiton. He reaches in to retrieve them. The touch of the parchment against his fingertips burn. Harsh, ill-willed words that arranged for his death and the death of his friend. Written by his brother. Written by Auguste’s uncle. 

“Exalted,” Nikandros says. His eyes are wide and focused very intensely on the letters burning Damen’s skin. “Is this very wise?”

“This is a matter that concerns them, too, Nikandros,” Damen answers. “Them and their prince. Yes. They should know.”

***

“You don’t believe they’re riding for Arles?” Jord asks.

Damen, though the vile words are now etched into his memory, reads through the letters again. He shakes his head. 

“I don’t know.”

“It’s possible he’d go to another fort along the way,” Orlant suggests. “He does have men loyal to him and those that were easily swayed once the Prince was injured. He might be trying to strengthen his resources.” 

A pain presses at the back of Damen’s neck. It ripples up to his head every time he tries to think about this.

Something is missing. A star kept hidden that keeps the night sky wrapped in darkness. Damen is sure that the Regent left before dawn to avoid being caught. He’s also sure that if Auguste had not been awake he’d have taken Laurent with him. But why? Surely not to kill him. If it’s the throne he’s after, having all three who are next in line before him killed so close together would be much too suspicious. 

Damen pushes away from the table in disgust of these matters. Deceit and betrayal. Lies. They turn Damen’s belly to ash. This is not a game meant to be played. This is not a game he’s ever been taught. 

“Exalted.” Nikandros’s voice plays within the wheels of Damen’s own turning mind. “Damen, you should rest.” 

Rubbing that spot at the back of his neck, Damen shakes his head and sits down at the table again only to find it empty. 

“Where have they gone?” he asks. 

“I’ve sent them off,” Nikandros says. “They can find work to do and you need to sleep.” 

A glare fixes upon Damen’s face, hard and fierce. One that makes Nikandros shrink back from him.

“You take it upon yourself to make decisions for me?” he growls. “Are you king here or am I?”

“I… Damianos, I…” He isn’t able to complete a statement before gracefully dropping to one knee. “Forgive me, Exalted. It was not my place. My actions were simply out of concern for your wellbeing.” 

Damen sighs and slouches in his seat. Is this what is being made of him? Camaraderie and brotherhood. Are they now a thing of the past or can he find a way to bandage the wound and believe in them still? 

“Perhaps I should rest,” Damen says, softly. “Nik, forgive my harsh tongue. I am not myself.” 

Nikandros looks up from the place he kneels. Says, “A king has no need for apologies.”

“But a friend?”

A smile twitches the corners of his mouth. Nikandros nods. “Then as a friend, I accept your apology. Please, Damen, go rest. Sleep. Did you even see your bed last night?” 

He, in fact, did not. There had been no chance before he discovered the letters and the Regent fled. And Auguste. 

No one has come with news about him. The sun shines overhead at near midday now. Damen can only hope that means he’s still doing well. 

He wonders about him. About them -- Auguste and Little Laurent. How much do they know of what’s transpired? It was Laurent who slipped Damen the letters. Has he told Auguste? As far as Damen knows, Laurent doesn’t even know he’s found them. 

Damen also wonders, with a strange sting to his heart, if they’ve wondered about him. 

“I think I will,” Damen says. “Go sleep some. It might help.” 

He starts to leave the room without waiting for an answer. All he hears are his lonely steps on the marble floors.

Until, “Whatever happens, Damen, I’ll be by your side.” 

Damen turns a heavy head and knows somewhere deep within his heart there is still friendship to be found. Loyalties that cannot be broken even with the mightiest of swords. He smiles. 

“Thank you, Nikandros.”

***

Damen doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep but it cannot have been too long. When he wakes, the room spins around him a blur of fuzzy motions. He’s not even truly sure whether or not he is awake. A warm breeze pushes the sheer curtains by the window. They dance for him. Soft and sensual. They’re joined by golden rays of sunlight that pirouette on through and onto the soft blankets over Damen. 

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Damen glances around the room. The same room he’s been staying in ever since this ordeal has started. It shudders around him despite its grandeur. Feels oddly cold even in the warm summer air. 

The memories made here are some of the most unpleasant of Damen’s life. Those he wishes he could just shed from his mind just like tears and never have to look back on. He’ll never return here. If he could, he’d burn Delfeur to ash. So much pain with these walls.

Damen slips out of the bed. He heads for the vanity where there’s a water pitcher. The water is cool as it pours into the basin and splashes over his face. It does little to replenish his senses. He doubts very much will until he can find peace again. 

Especially since a simple knock at his door has him startled as a hare in a thicket. 

“Yes?” 

The door opens. Damen’s heart plummets to his feet. It’s Paschal here to see him. He needs a moment to steady himself. 

“Your Highness,” he says, stepping just out of the doorway and into the room. “May--” He cuts himself off and is suddenly pulling the nearest chair over. “Are you ill, Damianos? Please, sit down.” 

Before Damen can respond, Paschal places a hand upon his shoulder and eases him down.

“What are you--”

“Is your wound giving you trouble?” he asks. “Has it reopened? I can restitch it if you need.”

“No.” Damen shakes his head. Confused. “I’m fine. What is this about?” 

Straightening, Paschal touches him once more with well-meaning knuckles brushed upon his cheek. 

“You don’t feel feverish,” he says. “You looked unfocused. I thought for a moment you might pass out. But you feel well then?”

“Yes, I’m--” That was it? Did Paschal really just fuss over Damen because he thought he was sick? “I’m all right. Just tired. Thank you, Paschal.” 

He nods. “Of course.” 

They fall into silence then, Paschal possibly forgetting that he must have come here to tell Damen something. 

“The reason for your visit, Paschal,” Damen says. “It’s not… Auguste… he didn’t…”

“Oh!” Paschal looks shocked at the question Damen hasn’t come out and asked. “No. He’s sleeping, but still alive. He’ll need a lot of rest. He won’t be happy about that, but it’s necessary for his recovery.”

A faint smile touches Damen’s lips. He, too, would not be happy having to stay in bed waiting to recover. 

“Then, why did you need to see me? If not for that.”

“The Prince has requested your presence.” Paschal lifts a hand towards the door. “The younger one. I thought, for your safety and health, you should go.”

“Laurent?” Damen questions. “He wants to see me?”

“That’s what he said.” 

“Is he still…?

“Of course.”

Of course. Where else would he be? Just because Auguste has woken, and Paschal believes he should be okay, doesn’t mean Laurent is going to leave his side. 

Damen rises to his feet, finds the world a little more stable beneath them, and goes back to Auguste’s bedchambers once more. 

***

Just like Damen left it, the door is still closed. Damen just stands in front of it for a moment. Though it’s just a door, it feels like a great barrier. One he’s not sure how to cross. 

Damen first reaches for the handle, then thinks better of it. He lifts his hand to knock, then remembers he is technically king here. 

Closing his eyes, Damen cracks the door open. Gently. He peeks inside and can feel the life in the room that was absent before. The plates of food have been eaten. The curtains are drawn. The windows are open. There’s such a change in Auguste it’s noticeable even from the slightly limited view Damen has. 

His breathing is even and cheeks rosy. The perspiration that soaked through him night and day is gone. Someone must have helped him change since his garments are different. He now wears clothes marked with his country’s emblem. Damen cannot help but notice how Vere’s burst of sun adds more to the life that now fills the room. 

Little Laurent is sitting on the edge of Auguste’s bed, holding his brother’s hand with both of his. 

He’s now in fresh clothing as well. Damen can only assume that Auguste insisted while he was awake. 

Damen takes a deep breath. Says, on the exhale, “You wanted to see me, Laurent?”

Laurent doesn’t look up or even react any more than a simple lift of his chin. He just goes on holding his brother’s hand. 

“Where have you been?” he asks, his voice impossibly disarming. 

Ice skitters down Damen’s spine. Laurent is not happy with him. Damen cannot imagine why, but he feels the urge to make it right again. 

“What do you mean?” Damen responds. 

“I find it to be a very straightforward question,” Laurent replies. “Would you like me to repeat it? Perhaps slower this time if you’re having trouble understanding.”

Damen sighs. Rubs between his eyes. Little Laurent can be very difficult.

“No, Laurent, you don’t need to repeat it. I was discussing other matters with trusted council.”

“Other matters.” Laurent plays with the word over his tongue. “Matters more important than my brother waking?”

That’s a matter of how one looks at it, Damen supposes. Everything is falling to pieces. He needs to pick them up and put them back together no matter how he longed to see his friend. 

“Laurent--”

“You claim to be his friend yet--”

“I wanted to give you time _alone_ with him,” Damen interrupts whatever vicious words Laurent wishes to throw at him now. “You two deserved that much.” 

Laurent is very still and says nothing. For a long while, that silence glides over him like silk. Damen waits, as usual, for Laurent to speak first. 

“He said you didn’t do it,” Laurent whispers after several minutes. “Just like you said.” 

That’s enough to make Damen smile. “Do you really believe me now?”

Looking over at him, Laurent holds his gaze for a long, drawn-out moment and nods. His eyes are swollen and still filling with tears. The making of crying, but not there yet. 

“He’s glad you’re here.” Laurent’s gaze drops and then sweeps up again. “I… I am, too, Damianos. You said you’d leave when he woke. Please, don’t. Not yet.”

His request, so soft and even almost pleading, leaves Damen breathless. He wants to reach out and protect Laurent from any harm that might fall upon him. But he doesn’t know if he can make that promise. Not with Kastor and the Regent free. 

“I don’t know, Laurent,” he says. “I have to--”

“Auguste told me you’d protect me if he couldn’t,” Laurent says. “Our Uncle is gone.” His eyes drop to the chessboard still with all the pieces arranged for a game. “I don’t know how to beat him.”

“This is not a _game_ , Laurent,” Damen replies. “You needn’t concern yourself with such things.” 

“Should I leave them to you, then?” Laurent asks. “You, who thinks more with a sword than ever with--”

“Laurent.” 

Jaw snapping shut, Laurent’s cheeks flush. Deep. Dark and crimson. His hands tighten around Auguste’s as he lifts his eyes to meet his brother’s. 

Auguste says, roughly, “Why are you speaking to Damianos that way?”

Laurent doesn’t answer that. Instead, he immediately begins to fuss over his brother. He fixes blankets and touches his brow as though checking for his temperature the same way Paschal does. Laurent asks if he’s thirsty. Auguste nods. 

“Well?” Laurent says. It takes Damen a heartbeat to realize he’s addressing him again. “My brother needs water.” 

The pitcher is still there by the bedside. Now, with three chalices. Auguste opens his mouth to speak again, but Damen simply raises a hand to shush him. He doesn’t mind this, and he’s more relieved that Auguste is awake and speaking than anything else. Damen pours a cup of water for Auguste. He starts to hand it to Auguste only to have Laurent take it from him instead. 

“You really have no brains, do you?” he says. “How do you expect him to do this on his own?”

Auguste, lifting himself up in bed, sighs. “I can hold a chalice, Laurent. There’s no need to insult the Prince of Akielos that way.” 

Prince of Akielos. Just a week ago, that’s who he was. Damen’s almost forgotten that person ever even existed. It’s a dagger to his belly. Twisting and painful. Auguste doesn’t know all that’s happened. He might not even fully remember what happened out on the battlefield. 

“Damen,” Auguste says, and the sound of his friend saying his name once more is a song from the sweetest birds. “Laurent tells me you’ve been more than fair to my people while I’ve been injured. Thank you for that.” 

A surge of pride rushes through him. Laurent complimenting him to his brother, for some reason, after everything, feels as though he’s accomplished something no other man can ever dream of. 

“Of course, Auguste.” Damen reaches out and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad and relieved to see you well. But--”

A tug at his arm cuts him short. Laurent is slipping off the bed and giving it his all to drag Damen out of the room with him. 

“Laurent?” Auguste questions. “What is it?”

“I need to speak with the Prince of Akielos in private,” he tells him. “Just for a moment.”

Damen’s heart beats strangely. Laurent knows he’s no longer prince, but king now. He takes a step forward and follows Laurent, who takes his first steps out of the front door. Laurent closes it behind him. 

“Don’t tell him.”

Damen straightens. Shakes his head. Says, “I… I must, Laurent. He’s the Crowned Prince. He’ll be king, same as I once this is all sorted out.” 

“Yes, yes, I _know_.” Laurent looks both irritated and exhausted. “But he’s only just woken. My brother needs… _please_ , Damen. Can’t we just pretend tonight?”

“Pretend?”

The word falls over Damen’s body like the salvation he needs. A break from all that’s been haunting him. It’s a simple dive into the words of one of Laurent’s treasured books. Lost in a sea of worlds that never were and never will be. Perhaps Laurent is right. Nothing will be different a few hours from now. A few hours of rest can be well afforded. 

Damen looks down at Laurent. Into sparkling blue eyes, wide and longing. He needs this. And Damen cannot find it in his heart to deny him.

“Okay, Little Laurent,” he whispers. “Let’s pretend.” 

A night passes over them. Velvet, purple shadows that brush through a sky of twinkling stars that wink down at the world below. In one room of Marlas, a grand fort in Delfeur, Damen, the King of Akileon plays chess with Laurent, the Prince of Vere, while Auguste, Vere’s Crowned Prince, watches with a soft smile on his face. Then, book in hand, Laurent curls up against his brother when Auguste’s eyes grow heavy and begins to read, and Damen falls asleep in his chair, listening to Laurent read and pretending the outside world and its troubles that will bring to them no longer exists. 

A light touch on his shoulder wakes him. Unlike the last time Damen woke, he isn’t dazed and disoriented. Aside from the slight ache in his neck and back, he’s actually feeling quite refreshed. 

Damen begins to stretch until he realizes there’s a little blonde haired prince standing beside his chair. He pulls his arms back in.

“You snore, you know,” Laurent says. His remark is accompanied by a slight curve of his lips. Then, softly, “Thank you, Damianos, for last night. I know you cannot do that again, but…” He ducks his head down and appears aggravated as his struggle for words. “Just. Thank you.” 

“Of course, Laurent.” Damen tries to place a comforting hand on the side of Laurent’s neck, but Laurent pulls away before he can be touched at all. “I’ll do whatever I can to keep you and your brother safe. You have my word.” 

Holding his gaze for an immeasurable amount of time, Laurent steps forward again and places two small hands upon Damen’s shoulders. He leans in and, quick as a fox, presses a friendly kiss to his cheek -- an Akielon practice, though, executed with nerves and uncertainty. 

Grin curving upon his lips, Damen touches the spot as Laurent nearly hurls himself away, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 

“What was that for?” Damen asks. 

“It’s what you do, isn’t it?” Laurent asks, and then, in very accented Akielon says, “Among friends?”

“Yes.” Damen nods. “It is.”

“I read about it. In a book.” He almost looks a little proud of himself before he glances down again. “I’m hungry.” 

Damen smiles. “I’ll fetch Paschal to check in on Auguste and ask for some food to be sent in.” 

The only response to that he receives his a nonchalant wave of Laurent’s hand as he climbs back up on the bed with his brother. 

***

By midday, Damen knows it’s time. He has maps and lists and letters brought in. Calls for Nikandros and Jord -- who were found sparring together -- and Orlant. And suggests to Laurent it might be best if he left the room. 

“You’ve done your job,” he says. “Now let us do ours. Would you like an escort?”

Laurent shakes his head, saying, “I’m perfectly capable of walking the halls on my own, thank you,” and goes. 

Damen watches until he disappears down the corridor, going further away from Auguste than he’s been since he was taken to this room. Where he’s headed, Damen isn’t sure. Maybe the bedchambers meant for him or perhaps the small library. He did have a book tucked under his arm. 

Thoughts of Laurent are not to be had right now. This is the moment to discuss what’s happened with Auguste. None of this will be easy, but it needs to be done. 

“So then, my father really is dead,” Auguste says when he’s told. 

He closes his eyes as if in pain. Both Jord and Orlant move to attend to him. Damen stops them. He knows the pain Auguste feels. 

When he opens them, just moments later, he is changed. Damen wonders if a same look fell upon him.

“I had thought as much,” Auguste says, “at the battle. My hope that I was wrong was for naught, I see.” 

He winces in pain different than the anguish of loss, and Damen helps him drink some water. Once he places the chalice back down, he carefully leans in to kiss Auguste’s cheek the way Laurent had kissed his earlier. Auguste does not appear put off by the act. He must be familiar with the tradition. 

“My condolences, Auguste,” Damen tells him. “My sympathies run deeper than you can imagine.” 

Auguste looks at him for a long, hard moment. Then, “How do you mean, Damen?” 

“I am no longer Prince of Akielon,” he explains. “My father passed before fighting even began.” 

“Damen…” Auguste whispers. Then, “Leave us.”

Both Jord and Orlant rise without a word and exit the room. Damen nods at Nikandros for him to follow. 

“Damen, I’m so sor--”

“There’s no need,” Damen says. “You’ve only learned about your own father’s passing. Don’t waste your energy fussing over mine.” 

Damen had once told Nikandros that he thought Auguste was a good man. Honorable. He never realized just how good and honorable he was until now. Here’s a man who’s just woken from a near death state and learned that his father died, and his first thoughts are to offer sympathies to Damen.

“I never expected to ascend the throne this way,” Auguste whispers. “I never wanted to fight you, Damen.” He shakes his head before Damen can reply. “No. That isn’t true. I _did_ want to fight you. I _longed_ to meet you in battle. To go sword to sword with the great Prince of Akielon.” He laughs darkly to himself. “I know now how truly a mistake that would have been.”

A shiver curls around Damen’s spine. Ice shaking through his entire body at the very thought of what it would have been like had they really met in the battle they’d both once dreamed of. It would have been an honorable fight, Damen knows that much. Not an easy one. But, and they both know this to be true, without the grace of luck, Damen would have emerged victorious.

Damen would have slain the kind and honorable Crowned Prince of Vere with pride running through his veins. He’d have been welcome home a war hero by his people while back in Vere--

The breath freezes in Damen’s lungs. If King Arelon had been killed… If Damen killed Auguste… Little Laurent would be alone. 

“Auguste,” Damen whispers. The room shakes. His hands shake. His whole body shakes. “I’m sorry. I tried to kill you. I _would_ have killed you. I let them use me.”

“Them? Damen, what are you talking about?”

Damen clenches, anger curling around his bones. His fists tremble at the thought of what he was almost tricked into doing.

“I thought it’d be good to have at least _someone_ we both could trust with us here,” he says, forcing the words out through a tight jaw. “But perhaps it’s better that we’re alone.”

“Oh,” Auguste says with a slight shake of his head. “We’re not alone.”

Some of the tension eases out of Damen’s shoulders. He glances around the room. Doesn’t understand Auguste’s statement. There are only the two of them present.

“What?” 

“You can come out now.” 

Damen wonders, at first, if perhaps Auguste is running a fever and he should get Paschal to check on him. But then the wall on the far end of the room pushes open the a door, and Little Laurent steps back into the room. 

He’s looking down at his feet, even fiddling a little with his fingers as though he isn’t quite sure if his brother is displeased with him. But if he looked up to see Auguste, he’d see a rather amused expression on his face. Damen looks to him for an explanation. 

“I found that when I was about his age,” he says, holding his arm out for Laurent to come forward. “There are secret doors all over this fort.” 

The laugh just happens. It rolls out of Damen’s belly and up his chest loud and heavy. He just can’t help it. Everything makes sense now. 

“So _that’s_ how you did it,” he says. “You are a devious, clever child. That’s how you got to Govart’s room.” 

Laurent simply looks up at him and lifts one slender shoulder as though he’s uninterested in all of this. 

“Why would you have gone to Govart’s room?” Auguste asks, turning Laurent by his thin hips so that he’s facing him. “What business would you have in there?” 

“Damianos said you tried to speak with him on the battlefield,” he says, softly. “That you thought you knew who the culprit was behind these games. You always said it was suspicious that Uncle kept a man like Govart on his guard. So I took it upon myself to see if I could find out why Uncle did.” 

Auguste’s eyes grow wide, his reaction to his even greater than hearing of his father’s death.

“ _Laurent_!” he nearly growls. “How could you _do_ something like that? Do you have any idea how _dangerous_ that was?”

“I wasn’t caught,” Laurent says. “No one saw me. No one even knew I left this room.” 

“That doesn’t matter!”

Surprisingly, Laurent doesn’t seem to have a response to that. Damen watches in amazement as his lower lip suddenly begins to tremble and he blinks away tears. 

“Are you very angry with me, Auguste?” he whispers. 

Auguste sighs and brings him closer to hug him. A warm, brothers’ embrace that Damen knows he’s never really had, and something inside hurts.

“No, Laurent,” he says. “But you are my cherished one. I cannot lose you.” 

“It’s okay, Auguste,” Laurent tells him. “Damen kept me safe. Just like you said.” 

Eyes rising to meet Damen’s, Auguste hugs Laurent tighter for a moment and then kisses the top of his head before letting go. 

“I take it that means my brother did find something.” 

Damen takes out the letters Laurent so cleverly stole from Govart’s room and kept hidden on Damen himself without Damen even knowing. He hands them to Auguste. 

“I didn’t want to believe it,” he says after reading them. “He’s my father’s brother. It was his idea that we leave the fort. He convinced my father to fight head on.” Auguste shakes his head. “Damen. I can only hope you can forgive my family for deceiving your own brother as well.”

Damen sighs. “I don’t think it took much convincing. Kastor…” His brother’s name curdles on his tongue. “There are things that I missed. Things I don’t think I ever wanted to believe. All he needed was someone to whisper into his ear.” 

“Then we have both been deceived by family,” Auguste says. Little Laurent’s hand curls around his brother’s wrist. “They’ve tried to pit us against each other.”

“For our crowns,” Damen agrees. “Easier to let us kill each other than getting their own hands dirty, I suppose.” 

“We both need to get back to our cities, Damen. And take our places as kings in order to--”

The door flies open, cutting off Auguste’s words like the strike of a whip. There stands Nikandros, brow dripping with sweat and out of breath. Damen stands. 

“Nikandros?”

“Exalted,” Nikandros says. “They’re here to… they’ve come…”

Behind him, figures come walking down the corridor. The first Damen recognizes is Makedon who left days ago.

“Makedon?” he questions. “What are you doing back here?”

Makedon pauses, a clear hesitation before coming forward again. “Order. I’m here on orders.” 

“Orders?” Damen asks. “Whose orders?”

“The King’s orders, Damianos.” 

The world tilts. Shoves Damen into a corner he never knew existed. A dark, tight place that leaves no room for breathing. He closes his eyes. 

“What king?”

“Kastor,” Makedon says. “The King of Akielon.” Damen’s heart slams against his ribs. “I’ve been sent to bring you and the Crowned Prince of Vere to Ios. And to place you both under arrest for the murder of your fathers.”

***

They don’t leave for Ios for two weeks, giving Auguste time to heal. For those two weeks, both he and Damen are kept locked in Auguste’s chambers. The letters, their only hope, and proof that they didn’t do this, Damen secretly handed over to Nikandros before thick, heavy cuffs were placed upon his wrists and ankles. It’s the only reason he hasn’t tried to fight back. It’s too much of a disadvantage. And it leaves Auguste too vulnerable. 

Laurent, of course, was left in the care of Jord, since Govart and others of the Regent’s guard returned. Despite Auguste’s insistence, Laurent would not remain with Jord always and would slip away and back into the room with them under cover of night. 

“Laurent,” Auguste whispered the night before they were meant to leave. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll return to you.”

“Just as you said last time you left.”

“And did I not kept that promise?”

“Only worse for wear,” Laurent snipped back. “The barbarian King made mincemeat of you.” 

Damen, under the guise of sleep, grinned at Little Laurent’s choice of phrase. It held very little venom. 

“I still kept my promise,” Auguste reminded him. “And I’ve healed for you. This is just another battle I must face.”

It was quiet for a while. Enough time rolling over the night in no hurry for a dawn that, Damen believed Auguste and Laurent had fallen asleep. Until he heard Laurent again.

“Can you win this battle?” he whispered. “Auguste?” 

Another moment of silence. Then, “I’ll return to you, Laurent. I promise.” 

By morning, the skies are a gray, dreary overcast. A good setting, Damen thinks while small drops of rain scatter across the courtyard. There banners against them. Bursts of sun and golden lions. The men lead the convoy that will bring Damen and Auguste to Ios. Right out in front is Nikandros, who will be riding with them and is the only one Damen would trust with the letters. 

“Makedon,” Damen murmurs as he and Auguste are loaded into the back of a covered cart. Both, now chained. “You cannot believe me guilty of these crimes.” 

In answer, Makedon gives him something of a shove, and Damen almost falls into the cart. But just before Makedon would close and lock the door, he gives a slight shake of his head. 

“I am loyal to the true heir,” he whispers. “But I cannot help you without at least giving false loyalty to Kastor.” Makedon sighs. “Perhaps my short time among Veretian soldiers have taught me new ways.”

The door closes then and locks both him and Auguste inside. Auguste, still wrapped in bandages and only just given the clear to travel by Paschal, winces. 

“You’re sure about Laurent?” he asks. “That he’s being watched? Taken care of?” 

“Yes,” Damen says. “Nikandros assured me that Jord stays behind in order to look after him.” 

The chains of Damen’s shackles as he reaches out to clasp Auguste’s hands. Auguste, gasping, appears startled by the sudden affection. His mind is elsewhere. Probably back in the fort. Where he last saw Laurent as they were allowed the courtesy of a farewell. 

Nothing stopped Laurent from coming into their locked room. No bolts. No guards. He knew his secret ways that Auguste was not strong enough to take, and Damen couldn’t follow and leave Auguste to fend for himself. The shackles pulled tight between their ankles made walking difficult as well. There was no escaping. 

“He’ll be okay,” Damen assures his friend. “They’ll look after him.” 

Auguste lowers and shakes his head. “My uncle, Damen. You don’t know… I never thought he’d go this far.”

It’d be easy for Damen to hurl around some old prejudice at Auguste. For him to simply excuse this as the slippery practices of a Veretian snake shedding its skin to reveal what’s truly underneath. 

But then, Auguste speaks of his uncle. Damen’s own brother took part in the very games that have brought them here. With them locked in irons and being carted back to Ios to stand trial for treason. Damen’s heart splinters under the weight of it all. 

“He didn’t act alone, Auguste,” Damen murmurs. “My brother. Kastor and even…” 

Jokaste. 

A whisper in Kastor’s ear to simply direct him towards what he already wanted. To get rid of Damen. 

“We’ll show them all the truth,” Damen assures him. “Clear any suspicions against us. We are the Kings of our Kingdoms. We’re allies. _Friends_. I will not let the lies and deceit of dishonorable men soil any of that.”

An unusual look passes across Auguste’s face. Almost intrigued or awed. He even almost smiles. 

“You really mean that, don’t you.”

To that, Damen really only has one thing to say, “I won’t let you break your promise to your brother.” 

Auguste gives him something of a nod in response. Damen cannot tell if his own promise is believed or not as Auguste says nothing more. He simply turns his head to look out the small barred window of the cart as it’s pulled forward and this new, long journey begins.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Feel free to leave comments, but I am going to ask for only positivity at the moment ((unless I've gotten something canon wrong lol. I'm obsessed with these books, but there's still a chance I messed up so feel free to politely correct me (:))


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